Back then, in 2000, I had ignored every instinct that said something was terribly wrong in that house, that I should run and never look back. Was I doing that again now, staying in Coldwater waiting to be accused of murder, when I should have fled on the day I found Anna’s body? Was there still a life for me here, love with Alex, friendship with Marilyn and the others, my job at the shelter? Maybe it wasn’t worth the gamble of staying. This came even more home to me when I made it back from Anna’s house, and there was a police car on my doorstep. I wondered if I’d ever get over it, or if my nerves would go to pieces every time, telling me to run, never come back. Did they know I’d been to Anna’s house? It was the young uniformed officer from the other day, PC Price. ‘I’m here to help you move?’ So they didn’t know, not yet. Or else they did and were waiting for me to make even more mistakes, walk right into their trap.

A while later, I looked out the windows of the dingy rented flat that DS Hegarty had helped me to find, barred as they were, and realised I was already in a kind of prison. Although I could move about this flat, and make myself tea from the scaled-up kettle, or watch daytime TV on the antiquated set, I couldn’t step outside without the risk of encountering reporters or passers-by with camera phones. DS Hegarty hadn’t said as much, but I imagined they were monitoring my phone calls too, and probably had someone outside watching me. I couldn’t do anything except sit and wait for my fate, getting up occasionally from the old foam sofa to look out the window or boil the kettle. I felt untethered, unable to sit down or settle. Luckily, I had been allowed to keep my phone, and I stared forlornly at it, waiting for a message from Alex, which didn’t come. The only messages I’d had so far were from journalists asking for an interview. How they’d got my number I had no idea.