‘Because you never know. And the sleeve they could well have,’ she says.

They then begin to draw the interview to a close. Nasreen puts her pens and her notebook into a neat stack.

‘Wait. There’s this. You have to read this,’ I say, finally finding the space to show them the letter. ‘It’s from Grace.’

‘Grace?’

‘He means Michelle. She didn’t like “Michelle”,’ Jan says.

I hand the letter to Nasreen. By the time she finishes reading it, her brows are crossed and she slides it across the table to Jan who skims through it.

‘This is good, Xander,’ Jan says, stabbing the letter with her finger. ‘She’d given you the money anyway, so that won’t hold as a motive.’

‘It definitely helps,’ Nasreen adds. ‘I mean, the Crown doesn’t have to prove motive in this country, Mr Shute, but if they have one it never hurts.’

‘So, what now?’ I say.

‘I’d still like to know what happened to it,’ Nasreen says, in a way that implies that she doesn’t expect an immediate answer.

‘You need to be ready to enter your plea at the next hearing,’ she continues. ‘I take it from you that is not guilty. We are not arguing diminished responsibility or insanity. Just a straight not guilty. Then we get some directions from the judge and wait for trial. In the meantime, the prosecution will serve whatever evidence they want to rely on, and once we have it we send them a document telling them what your defence is and then we can get some disclosure.’

‘Disclosure?’ I say.

‘Yes. If they have anything which could help your case, they have to give it to us, disclose it. And, of course, we wait to hear about whether they have the record or the sleeve that we will have asked for and if they do, what the fingerprint tests show.’

‘What are we hoping for?’ I say.

‘Well, best ways, there are prints on it that don’t belong to you or the deceased but a third party, our alternative candidate. And even better if the Police National Computer turns up an identity for our man. Worst ways, we get nothing, but lose nothing. I’m assuming you didn’t touch it, Mr Shute? Where you saw it and where it is on the photograph, is that where they left it? The deceased or her murderer?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say, but the truth is that whatever I do remember dwindles to almost nothing when I am scrabbling about, desperate to remember. I don’t know what I touched.

‘Then we are all good,’ she says, and stands to shake my hand.

I offer mine but withdraw it when I see her face. She smiles at me instead and opens the door to show us out.