‘Detective Metcalf,’ I say. The dogs are barking like crazy now. I wait till they quieten. ‘Do you think I killed her?’ I ask.

‘That’s what I am trying to find out, Miss Mahoney.’

‘Ms.’

‘Ms Mahoney. If you didn’t do it –’

‘Or Layla is fine.’

His face softens. There are lines around his eyes that give him an avuncular look. I wonder whether he knows that and presses it into service whenever he can. ‘If you didn’t do it, Layla, now’s the time to say.’

What he wants to say is before it gets worse. I think about the stones and bottles that were being pelted at the van when they brought me in. Being shown such hatred by strangers is bewildering and intoxicating at the same time. I haven’t been called Paki in decades and that more than the other things – more than bitch and murderer – is what stings the most.

‘Does it matter? You think I did it. They,’ I say, vaguely indicating the outside world, ‘think I did it.’

‘I’m keeping an open mind, Layla. Yes,’ he says and unclasps his hands. ‘Right now, they think you did it.’ He breathes deeply as if wrestling with what to say next. ‘But they want someone to blame. She was beautiful. Had young children.’

My throat goes dry. ‘Did she? Have children?’ I had never thought about that. Not for a second. Young children, he said. How young, I wonder? And how long will their motherless futures be?

‘Why were you on the rooftop, Layla?’ He leans forward and stares me. There isn’t more than a foot between us and I can see the green flecks in his eyes. He waits, holding my gaze, and I wonder how long it will be before he blinks me away.

I take a breath. I have to tell him something. From law school I remember they can only hold suspects for so long before they have to charge them or release them. But I think that’s at least twenty-four hours. It’s going to be tough to string this out for that long without telling him anything.

And then there’s this one immovable fact – I can’t face a murder charge. I didn’t do it. But there’s a danger in saying too much, which could be worse for me than a murder trial. Which is greater: the risk of being killed or the risk of a conviction? He looks at me, as if it is him and not me on the precipice of a huge drop, expectant.

‘It was Michael,’ I say at last. ‘Find Michael and you’ll find out everything you need to know.’

He looks up at the camera to make sure the red light is on and that we are recording. There is surprise drawn into his face but he does well to keep it from his voice. ‘Who is Michael?’