Slowly he gets to his feet, then crouches next to her. He turns her over on to her back, like a rag-doll, slots his arms beneath her body and lifts her. She is small and slight – a bird – but his body is tired, left weakened now the surge of adrenalin has worn off. Her weight feels heavy in his arms. An ache runs down his spine and through his hips. Each step is difficult, trying to keep steady, trying not to lose his balance. As he climbs the stairs, he talks to her.

‘It’s all right, my darling. I’m going to take care of you now.’

Her eyelids remain closed, her mouth has fallen slightly open, but no voice escapes her lips. In his head, he counts the steps – a habit formed in childhood. He has always loved numbers. As he counts, he thinks of the years he spent in prison – how the weight of the number oppressed him when the sentencing happened. In the dock, with the judge’s words still ringing in his ears, he had quickly calculated the months, the weeks, the number of days and nights he was facing into. He felt them falling on him, obliterating his indignation – the fury he had been forced to suppress and keep hidden throughout the trial.

From the start, he had protested his innocence, but the police had made up their minds. His denials throughout their investigation became an annoyance and a frustration; in the same way the missing murder weapon was an open sore. At the time, he was incensed by their refusals to believe him, but now he just feels tired. Tired of being misunderstood. Tired of having to fight to explain himself. And what’s the point of it any more?

His life is finally yielding to inevitability. For the past few weeks he has been sustained by the promise of love and comfort that she held out to him. The way his heart had quickened when he first saw her move through the garden. Her likeness to Charlotte was there from the start, in her carriage, the bow of her mouth, the slant of her eyes, the steadiness of her gaze. It had unnerved him, as if his wife had somehow returned to him – and then later, it had provided that sliver of hope: the chance of redemption. He had failed Charlotte in life. His faithlessness, his philandering. He had been helpless to it then, but the years in prison had suppressed that side of him. An older man, now, he wanted comfort and affection and the chance of something extraordinary. For weeks, she has been a buffer against advancing dread. But now, with the sun descending behind the houses, he feels the sense of inevitability rising in him. He knows now what is called for. What is required. A beautiful ending. The kind denied to Charlotte, but at least he can do something about this one.