I slide to the floor. Looking around this cell, I know that I have to get out. I need to shed some of this debris that has gathered around me and get out into the air and walk. The concrete is cold against my legs. I lean back into the wall and then begin to rock. With every point of contact, flesh against stone, a tiny fraction of this buzz is earthed into the ground. It can’t be her. I tell myself this over and over. I’d have known it. Surely, I’d have known it. Known her anywhere. But then what was it about that night that I remembered if not the name? Didn’t I have a sense of knowing? Could Conway be right? Could I have supressed the memory?

And then the realisation punches home: Grace is dead.

When the door opens I am not certain how much time has passed. I look up from my place on the floor and meet the hazel eyes of a young woman. She looks down at me and nods at the officer who leaves.

She comes and sits next to me. Her suit seems used to these conditions and hangs from her slight frame. It’s the same solicitor from before. Her hair, pulled off her face with clips, shines bronze in this light.

‘Feeling okay?’ she says – the vowels are long – ohkay. Northern. I look at her face. A sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose makes her look young.

‘Yes. I just have to ground myself. You came back?’

She nods. There is a breeze of something fresh coming her clothes. Lemon?

‘Look, I have just had a look at your disclosure. And I had a word with custody already.’

‘And?’

‘And it seems that you’re not …’ she says, and points a finger at her temple and makes small circles. ‘You’ve been tested apparently.’

‘Nice,’ I say, mustering a small smile.

‘The bad news is that you are an idiot. The good news, however,’ she says, getting to her feet and helping me up, ‘is that there’s not enough evidence here to hold you.’

Standing, I turn to face her. ‘What? But I was there.’

‘Were you, though?’ Hazel eyes blink at me.

‘Yes. I described the whole place to them. They know I was there.’

‘I’ve had a listen to your interview. You weren’t there in 1989. You were there last week.’

‘But – it was her. That’s the same woman I saw being killed. And it turns out I knew her. Grace was my girlfriend.’

She digs around in a small brown leather bag for a pen. ‘Don’t know about no Grace. Michelle Mackintosh is who they have. Anyway, if they had enough evidence they’d have charged you by now. They’ve got nothing.’

‘It’s the same woman, Miss —’

‘Janine. Jan.’