I ran back to the house. The kitchen door was open and I was halfway across the floor, dripping water on the shiny tiles, heading for a phone I could see mounted on the wall, before I stopped and gazed about me at an upturned table, scattered chairs, a broken vase in glassy diamonds strewn across the floor. Through double glass doors I could see into a sitting room and a similar scene of chaos: ripped sofa cushions flung about and trampled on, books and ornaments swept from their shelves and lying on the carpet, a smashed photo frame, a shattered lamp.

I froze into stillness, rigid. Could whoever had done this still be in the house? I listened, ears straining, but could detect no sound beyond the ticking of the kitchen clock. After a minute I felt safe enough to move, dialled for the police, then picked up a kitchen chair and sat, wet and shaking, waiting for them to arrive.

They seemed to take for ever, but I don’t suppose they were long in arriving. Two uniforms came first, one of whom stayed with me and asked me questions, whilst the other went to check out the pond, and returned pretty smartly, speaking into his radio.

Reinforcements arrived quickly after that, and an ambulance, and a concerned neighbour who poked her nose into the kitchen, worried about what was going on. A paramedic wrapped a blanket around me and checked my pulse and a few other things, just in case I was going into shock. By the time he was satisfied I was only suffering from cold, the house and garden seemed to be crawling with police, and the dear lady neighbour, having been sent away rather sharply by a uniformed officer, returned with a determined and slightly martyred expression, bearing a tray of mugs and a pot of tea.

I sat with grateful hands wrapped around a mug, just waiting. A detective would be arriving shortly, I was informed, and would want to ask me some questions. I just nodded. I didn’t want to mention that I’d been through this procedure, that I’d found a dead body before; but the inevitable was closing in, and it arrived, shortly afterwards, in the person of Detective Inspector Ford.

His horrible little sidekick was with him, the putty-faced black-haired girl with the smirking mouth who sat beside him at our first interview. Her name, it turned out, was DeVille.

At the sight of me, sitting shivering in the kitchen, her black eyebrows flew upwards and she directed a meaningful glance at her boss. He was looking at me strangely, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of my being there. ‘Miss Browne?’ he asked, frowning.

I nodded. ‘Juno,’ I reminded him.

He turned to his constable. ‘Go next door, will you, and interview that lady who was so anxious to speak to someone.’