‘Who is she, Xander?’ Blake asks softly.

‘Who is she? How am I supposed to know who she is? You should know. That’s your job.’

‘We do, Mr Shute. But we were hoping you might tell us something more about her.’

‘I can’t tell you anything.’

I look at the photograph again. It’s her but I can’t understand how she can be in a photograph from thirty years ago. ‘This is all wrong,’ I say.

‘Wrong how?’

‘Wrong. Just wrong. This – this was days ago. Not thirty years.’

‘I assure you, Mr Shute, these photographs were taken from files that have been in storage for all this time. So, tell us how you saw her being killed a week ago when she’s been dead for nearly three decades?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Funny, Mr Shute. We were thinking that too. Doesn’t make sense, does it?’

I push the chair back from the table to stand up. The floor seems to be moving. ‘It was less than a week. Not years,’ I say.

‘Here’s what we think, Mr Shute. You did see that poor woman being strangled. As you tried to tell us. But you must have had some kind of breakdown and suppressed the memory. Did you have a breakdown, Mr Shute?’

‘Breakdown? No!’ I say, sitting back down.

‘I mean, we’ve been looking into you, Mr Shute. You used to have a very different life, didn’t you?’

‘So?’ I say.

‘So, Mr Shute. How does a respected, highly qualified computer scientist with a degree from a top university, with a highly paid job, become … you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, look at you. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not exactly a well man, are you?’

‘Well? I am well. I’m well. Just because I have an alternative lifestyle doesn’t make me unwell.’

‘Alternative?’ He pauses. ‘What I think is that years of being out on the streets broke you.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ I say.

‘Actually, you do. So, tell us. What’s your version of this?’

‘I – I’ve told you. Again and again. I saw her being killed. Last week,’ I say and as I hear the words, the certainty I feel begins to drift and fall to my feet.

‘Okay, let me tell you what we think. We think that you killed her, Mr Shute.’

‘I killed her? What? Why would I kill her? I reported this to you!’

‘Yes, you did. And I, we, believe you thought you could distract us by reporting it. But it was you all along.’

‘What? This is ridiculous. Why would I have come to you?’

Blake hands another picture to Conway.

‘Who was she, Mr Shute?’ he says.

‘I don’t know. I told you. I don’t know her.’