‘That’s a start,’ she says, looking up. ‘What’s the rest? Why were you in the house? When were you in the house? Are you still going with that whole last-week story or have we reflected a bit since last time?’

I am shocked by how direct she is, but I suppose she has to be. ‘I’m beginning to think it was when they’re saying. Thirty years ago,’ I say.

‘Okay. And are you saying you did see her being killed then?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think?’

‘Look, this isn’t easy for me. My memory isn’t – these last years haven’t exactly been what you might call ideal,’ I say, feeling my temper unravelling.

‘I understand that, I do, but still I need to know. Why are you telling me you think?’

‘Because I’m not sure if I imagined it. But then I remember the details so vividly. I saw her being killed. I am sure of it. I just don’t know if—’

‘But maybe you’d have seen some of the police pictures at the time, if you knew her that well?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know she was dead. Or at least I don’t remember knowing. Could it have been me?’

‘What?’ she says.

‘It might have been me.’

She puts the pen down and looks at me seriously.

‘If you’re saying that, then you’re saying “no comment”. Simple as. But, take it from me: with what they have now, it’s not going to look good if you go “no comment” again. We can get away with it once, play the disclosure card. But this is one of those cases where you are going to want to get your defence in now. Nice and early. So, let me ask you again. Are you certain that it was someone else?’

I think about this. What Seb said to me yesterday still rings true. I couldn’t have done that to her if I loved her, could I? Now, when my back is against the wall, I will fight, but back then I wasn’t a man of violence. I hated it. I had always believed that violence was a car swerving out of control: when you lose your temper, you’re just a passenger in your own body.

And yet my memory is dashed or repressed or whatever the word is for what has happened to it. It feels not exactly wiped-out, but collaged. Some parts are bright and daring, others dark and patchy. It’s the juxtaposition that is unsettling. The memories don’t flow from one to another; they lurch around like dreams.

‘I’m certain,’ I say.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Why were you in the house? Were you invited in by the deceased?’ The deceased. The word jars. She was a person.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, do you want to have a think?’ she says. ‘Why might you have been there?’