‘Well, that’s not a clear picture, is it? Take a look at this one,’ he says and places a Polaroid flat on the table as if he is dealing a card. It snaps as he lays it down. ‘This one was taken when she was still alive.’

I look at Blake. There is a wash of emotion over her face that I can’t place. Something like regret or guilt. I push the picture back at Conway, without looking at it.

‘I said I don’t know who she is.’

‘Look at it, Xander. She was called Michelle. Who was Michelle, Xander?’ Blake asks.

The name. Just the utterance of it pricks a memory from somewhere. Then I remember. Mishal. Michelle? At the cemetery. The new headstone. And then I recall him in the room itself as he stood over her. He called her that. Didn’t he? Chelle. I try to unhook my mind from what I can see, from this room and these two police officers, and try to let my mind spring back to that day.

‘He might have called her Michelle, I think. But there’s mo—’

‘Michelle?’ Conway cuts me off, looking at Blake.

‘Who did?’ she asks.

‘The killer, Ebadi.’

‘Did he? You’re sure?’ Conway says.

‘Sure? No. Not sure. I was hiding behind a sofa. I’m not sure. But the name. I’ve seen it. But not Michelle, like you’re saying it. Mishal,’ I say, inflecting the word.

‘So, you don’t know Michelle, but Mishal rings a bell, you say? Tell me more about that,’ he says.

Mishal rings a bell. Something in that phrase he used sends a current through me. My eyes begin to water in the expectation of a realisation that is just there at the edges of my grasp.

‘I saw the name in a cemetery. Ebadi. I followed him. I think I know where he buried her,’ I say.

‘Actually, Mr Shute, we know exactly where she is and it isn’t buried. She was cremated. Scattered over a park.’

‘But, Mishal,’ I say. ‘It has to be her. Just – you have to look. Mishal. Acton cemetery. M. I. S. H. A. L.,’ I spell it out.

They ignore me, and then at a nudge from Blake, Conway flicks the photograph over to me once again. I look down at the picture, knowing that it is fruitless. And then my heart stops.

‘The name we have for her is Michelle Mackintosh. Not Mishal. We have identified her and that’s her,’ he says, placing a finger on her face. ‘And with her is a man you might recognise. The police investigating this case at the time haven’t made a record of who that man was. Isn’t even a great picture to be fair, but you know him, don’t you, Mr Shute?’

I look down at the man in the picture again and rub my eyes. I don’t understand.