‘No,’ I say. ‘Not on the record – you said sleeve. What about the record itself? I saw him throw the record. It will have his fingerprints on it, the killer’s. It has to. That’s all records ever do, attract fingerprints.’

‘Unfortunately, they have some of the record. But they’ve lost some of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They only have a piece of it and that doesn’t have any prints on it.’

‘What?’ I say, my hopes crashing under the weight of the information. ‘How could they just lose it?’

‘It happens,’ she says. ‘Missing exhibits. Sometimes they don’t even seize everything. They didn’t think it was a murder, remember. It’s a minor miracle they had any of it.’

I consider this and exhale.

‘Okay,’ I say.

‘I’ve told Nasreen about all this, and I’ll tell her what you said about the record. Needed to confirm your explanation for the prints. Okay. Better go,’ she says, and hangs up.

I replace the handset and sit back down.

‘Everything okay?’ Seb says, concern written on his face.

I shake my head. ‘Not really.’

45

Friday

It’s been almost two weeks since my phone call with Jan and I have heard nothing more. I just wait, continuously flattened by the walls in Seb’s house. I want desperately to leave but I can’t. I have to train myself to withstand the weight of confinement.

Seb continues to pretend to go to work.

‘You know I read once about those Japanese salarymen who lose their jobs but still get up every morning, get dressed and go to “work”. They just go to the park. Rows and rows of them on benches. The article said that they pretended because they were ashamed of losing their jobs, but I don’t think it’s just shame. I think it’s that pretending is the next best thing to doing.’

‘You could get another job,’ I say to him.

He nods sadly and straightens his tie. ‘You could too,’ he says.

When the day of my hearing comes, it is grey and flat. I wash thoroughly and dress in a suit Seb has lent me. The trousers are loose around the hips and the jacket is short in the sleeve, but I wear it gratefully. As I walk up the long path to Southwark Crown Court, I suddenly realise that it is familiar. I came out of it after my bail hearing, but I didn’t see it then. Now I look and recognise it as a building I have seen before in the papers. Today there is no press, only shallow puddles and misty, driven rain. As I walk I see myself reflected in the huge windows lining the route. I am indistinct, a ghost almost.