‘Carrie will stand by you, Paul, if you go to the police now … tell them what you told me …’ He was shaking his head and I took his face between my hands. ‘Look at me,’ I urged him softly. ‘You didn’t mean to kill him.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t take the risk.’

‘Paul, you must!’

He gazed at me sorrowfully for a moment, then raised a hand to caress my cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Juno, I can’t.’ For a moment his lips touched mine. ‘I’m sorry, Juno,’ he whispered devoutly, ‘so, so sorry.’

And it was only then, as he slid his strong, clever fingers down to my neck, that I realised what he was going to do. ‘Paul!’ I breathed. But it was too late. He choked the word off short. His hands were around my throat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated miserably. ‘I’m sorry.’

He was crushing my windpipe. I clutched at his wrists, trying to break his hold but his hands fitted round my neck like an iron collar. I couldn’t breathe. He was forcing me back, my body bent over the workbench. I swept my arms out in a wide arc around me, groping for any tools that might be lying there. Nothing. I drew my arms in between his and chopped at the inside of his elbows. His hold faltered for a moment, but didn’t weaken. I scrabbled at his fingers, trying to tear them away, but he only closed them around my throat more tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, over and over.

I didn’t care how fucking sorry he was. My brain was bursting, a dazzling fog of bright, pinprick lights crowding in from the edges of my vision. I let go of his fingers, stopped struggling, let my whole body go limp. His own momentum brought him forward, his face closer to mine. I thrust my hand between his arms, my fingers hooked like claws and jabbed him hard in the eye. He released me with a curse and I collapsed against the workbench, gasping for breath.

I staggered round behind it, my chest heaving, and grabbed a long, pointed chisel from the rack on the wall. As he lunged for me again, I thrust it towards him and he sprang back. He hesitated.

‘Paul …’ I croaked. It was an effort to speak, my strangled voice raw and husky. ‘Listen to me. This … won’t … do any good …’