I thought about asking Jeff to come with me, but decided against it. I also thought about asking Danny, but he’d try to run the show, tell the cop how to do her job. So no, not a good idea. Dad would have come if I’d asked him, but he has enough on his plate with his wife slowly dying. The last thing he needs to know is that the cops are questioning his daughter.

Turner finally arrives. ‘Thanks for coming in so promptly, Rebecca. Come this way.’

I follow her through a set of steel doors and down a corridor. Turner directs me into an interview room. There’s a table, four chairs, and a glass window for people to observe from the other side. Turner sits down on the other side of the table. The blunt fringe drawing a black line across her forehead makes her look harsh. Christ, why am I here? What does she think I’ve done?

Taking the photo of Katie Collins out of a file, she places it on the desk in front of me, then moves her hand to the left and without even looking, presses a button on the recording machine. Her dreary voice informs the machine of the day, date, time, and my name. It all seems very official, like I’m a suspect. I wasn’t expecting this. Maybe I should have an attorney with me. Fuck.

‘Rebecca,’ she says, shaking her head slightly, her fringe landing back into the straight line, ‘when we last spoke you told me you had never seen Katie Collins except on the TV.’ Her fingers are resting on Katie Collins’ blonde hair. I nod. Pointing at the machine, she asks me to speak up.

‘That’s correct,’ I say.

‘Never heard from her or made contact with her.’

I nod again. Oh shit, the machine. ‘Yes. I mean, no. I’ve never heard from her.’

‘Is that still your statement, Rebecca?’

‘It is.’

The file on the desk is open and she is moving her head from left to right, left to right, scanning the page in front of her. My mouth is as dry as burnt toast.

‘Ms. Wall,’ she says. When did I become Ms. Wall? ‘Katie Collins’ husband told us that during his last conversation with his wife, when she rang him from Boston, she told him she had sent you a note, which you replied to. She said she was going to meet you on Saturday night, which was last Saturday night.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard, saw, or spoke to this woman.’

‘Did you get the note?’

‘I didn’t get any note.’

‘She told her husband she left it at your home, addressed to you. That you then texted the number she left and arranged to meet her.’

I can feel the blood rushing to my head, flushing my face, which I’m sure, makes me look guilty.