‘Just a minute,’ she says, standing up and walking to the door.

Ten minutes later there is still no sign of her returning. Has she forgotten I’m here? I’m about to go find her when the door opens and she walks back in.

‘Sorry about that,’ she says, returning to her chair. ‘So you’ve decided to change your story.’ Her eyes are searching mine. I’m afraid she doesn’t believe me.

‘I’m telling you the truth.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?’

‘Because Stephen Black was staring at me during the interview and I was afraid to give his name.’

But she’s not interested in my alibi.

‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, say, where the note is?’

‘What note?’

‘The note Katie Collins left for you.’

‘I already told you, I didn’t get any note.’

‘Someone did. Someone sent Katie Collins a text arranging to meet her in Treehill Park. They got the number from the note.’ Turner stands up, walks to the rear wall and rests against it.

‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

‘Have you any idea who did contact her?’

‘How would I?’ I’m confused now. I came here to tell her about my alibi and all she’s worried about is the note. ‘Can’t you tell from the number it came from that it wasn’t my phone?’

‘It came from a disposable phone. Was it yours, Becca? Did you contact her from a burner phone?’

‘No, I didn’t. Look, I already told you I have an alibi. Stephen Black. Why don’t you believe me?’

‘I do believe you. We checked the club’s CCTV, and saw you leave with him.’

‘So why do you still think I have anything to do with her death?’

‘You could still have contacted her. Maybe you changed your mind after, decided Stephen Black was better company, let her show up at Treehill Park in the middle of the night on her own.’

My head is thumping. What is Turner suggesting? That I made a date, didn’t show up and someone else killed her? Or that I made a date, am deliberately using Stephen Black as an alibi and got someone else to kill her? I can’t think straight. She is unnerving me, making me feel like I’m guilty of something, I just don’t know what.

There’s a knock at the door and some guy sticks his head in, telling her they have it. Her eyes light up.

‘I’ll be right out,’ she says, then she comes back to the table and sits down across from me again.

‘Rebecca,’ she says, ‘it’s crucial we find that note. It was left at your address, so for now we have to conclude that you’re the person who made contact.’

‘It could have been stolen,’ I say.

‘Stolen?’ she repeats.