‘Rachel, is it? Do come in.’

I had called myself Rachel Smith. I couldn’t call myself Jenna in case she remembered that from my Facebook message – it was hardly a common name. I had so many fake identities, shrouding myself in lies.

Nervously, I followed her down a small corridor, declining her offers of coffee or water. Her office was small but tasteful, with awards and legal books on the shelves, a sofa with some scatter cushions. A table with tissues. Of course, people must cry all the time in here. They came to her at their lowest ebb, when life no longer made sense, and I was doing the same, but for different reasons.

Alison sat opposite me, notebook and pen in hand. ‘So, Rachel, why don’t you tell me what brought you here today.’

Oh God. ‘Um . . . Alison, I’m sorry. I’m actually kind of here under false pretences. I mean, I don’t want a divorce or anything. I’m not even married.’

She looked confused. ‘You don’t have to be married to use a family lawyer.’

‘No, but – it was me who sent you that Facebook message. About Anna Devine? I’m sorry, I just – I really needed to talk to you and didn’t know how. I’ll pay for your time, of course.’

She sat back, looking mildly irritated but not yet furious with me. ‘I don’t understand. Are you with the police?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re looking into Anna’s death?’

May as well tell the truth. ‘Well, the thing is, I’m the chief suspect. The one who found her body. But I didn’t do it. I swear, I didn’t touch her. So I need to find out who did.’

She was no pushover, Alison. Her carefully lined eyes widened, and she just looked at me for several long seconds without speaking – try it, it’s harder than you think – then she placed her notebook on the table. ‘You’re – what’s your real name?’

My real name was not my real name, but I couldn’t go into all that now. ‘Rachel Caldwell. I’m – I was dating Anna Devine’s husband, Alex. They’d split up, as far as I knew.’

‘Right. Yes.’

‘I’m so sorry to trick you. I’m just desperate to find out who really killed her.’ Someone to offer up to the police instead of me. ‘That’s why she met with you that day – you weren’t there for a massage. She was a client of yours?’ Alison nodded. ‘And she saw you the day before she died.’ Another stiff nod.

‘I can’t talk to you about her case. Confidentiality.’

‘Of course. But – that doesn’t apply if someone is dead, does it?’ I had checked.

She frowned. ‘Not exactly. There’s still a moral duty – and you’re not a police officer, so why should I talk to you?’