‘It’s okay,’ I say to him, and push past him towards the kitchen. ‘Detective Conway,’ I say, rushing in. He turns to face me with a cup of tea in his hand. His suit looks cheap next to Seb’s and pouches under his eyes tell me he is tired.

‘Mr Shute,’ he says gravely.

‘What’s happened?’ I feel suddenly as if I can’t breathe.

‘Happened?’ he says. ‘Nothing’s happened as such. We wanted to talk to you about Mr Squire, as you know.’

‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Okay.’

‘But there’s one other thing.’

I look at him expectantly. He puts his cup down and strides towards me.

‘Xander Shute. I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it could harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court.’

‘Murder?’ Suddenly the air around me has become thin. Too thin. ‘He’s dead?’ I say, steadying myself on the door frame. He says nothing but takes out handcuffs from his pocket and methodically tightens them on my wrists. Seb follows me as I am led to an unmarked car.

‘A solicitor – can I get you a solicitor?’ he says breathlessly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But—’

‘What is it?’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to say that. For being here when I needed you.’ He stands there by my side, helpless as I am put into the back seat of the car. He takes out his phone as we are waiting to leave and dials a number but then hesitates and replaces the phone in his pocket. He stares at me through the glass as if he is trying to tell me something.

The car smells of new plastic and makes me feel ill. Conway climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine with a button. He looks over his shoulder at me before he pulls away but says nothing.

My heart thumps in my chest. As the car races, so too does my pulse. All of this space is shrinking, pressing down on me. I don’t want to be in a cell. I can’t be in a cell again. There is no way of connecting to myself under this pressure of space. My hands become cold and clammy and then my face. The blood is redirecting itself. I know that’s all it is but knowing doesn’t help the crushing sensation that I am having a heart attack. And now I wonder whether that is what is happening.

‘I’m having a heart attack,’ I say too quietly to be heard. I focus on something outside myself to reboot my system. To stop the panic, if that’s what it is.

Murder?

Squire?