Adrian’s kitchen. How many hours had she spent in here? They’d both always liked it more than the sitting room, gravitated here naturally, stayed at the table long after they’d finished eating. It looked its best in the evening with the glow of the lamp on the sideboard and the reflected gleam of the spotlights over the steel counter. If Lennie had designed the lighting herself, just for tonight, she couldn’t have done a better job. More indirect light shone through the glass panels over the table – the couple next door were putting their children to bed. They’d never actually lived here, she and Len – Adrian had asked but she’d said no, of course – but they’d been here so much that they knew the rhythms of the place as well as the ones at their own old flat. The so-called guest room upstairs had been full of Lennie’s things, the bed always made up with the candy-striped sheets Adrian had taken her to choose at Peter Jones.

He poured himself a glass and took the chair across the corner of the table from her, two or three feet of space between them. Soft grey shirt, black tie – still in his work clothes. He didn’t need lamplight to look good but it didn’t hurt. It played up the planes of his face, the long straight nose between the wide-set brown eyes, the cheekbones. When he frowned, deep lines appeared between his eyebrows and his lower lip protruded. She’d found that strangely compelling back in the day. Sultry.

‘I’m sorry all this is happening to you,’ he said.

She took a swig of wine. ‘I brought it on myself.’

‘Corinna?’

‘The rest.’

He didn’t deny it, she noticed. ‘Are the police getting anywhere?’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to ask Len. I keep searching online but I can’t find any news.’

‘There isn’t any. They’re not even looking for anyone else any more. They’re convinced it was a domestic. She and Josh had a fight, he whacked her over the head and killed her, probably a moment of madness, then set the house on fire.’

‘Josh? No way. I can’t believe that.’

She felt a rush of affection for him, had to stop herself reaching out and rubbing his arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said instead.

‘For what?’

‘Thinking the best of my friend.’

‘I liked him. Like him. You know that – I always have. Have they got any idea where he could be?’

‘Not as far as I know. The last I heard, they hadn’t got further than finding his car. They probably think he’s taken himself off to end it all.’

He frowned again, deeper. ‘Wasn’t your guy on West Midlands friends with him, too?’

‘He’s not my guy,’ she said pettily. ‘But yes.’