‘Oh God, thank you, I didn’t know what to do.’

He looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

‘Go on. We’ll leave in ten. You might want to get dressed too.’ Only then did I look down and realise I was still in the loose vest top I’d slept in. The strap had fallen down, and my left breast had almost entirely slipped out of it.

Jenna would have known what to do at a moment like this. Brazened it out, laughed her dirty laugh, met his eyes. Flirted, even. But I was not Jenna, and instead I shoved it back in, and scurried red-faced from the room, muttering my thanks. As I ran out, I knew he was watching me go.

Rachel

Rachel

People think that a murder investigation is fast, that they arrest you and that’s it, you’re up in court the next day and off to prison. It’s not like that at all. They won’t charge you until they’re absolutely sure they have the evidence, or the case can all fall apart. So they take their time. They watch you. Give you just enough rope that you can hang yourself, as the saying goes.

The day after Anna died went by as normal. Callum completed his tasks diligently, but with Marilyn gone, both Tom and Katrin gave up on any pretence at work: I thought they were maybe having a thing together. Hooking up, or whatever they called it nowadays. Out of the office window I watched them standing in the car park, talking intently. He was gripping her arms, as if trying to convince her of something; she craned her fair braided head up to him, many inches taller, rangy and lean in his Jack Wills rugby top. They were so young. When I was that age, events were about to take a turn I could never have imagined. I looked away – it wasn’t my place to get involved with those two, I had enough going on. I kept thinking of Anna, the last time I’d seen her. I’d been heading out of the shop with wine and crisps in my arms, thinking about how I’d see Alex that night and if I’d bought the right brand of wine, when suddenly she was there in my peripheral vision, a flash of pink from her coat. Red-faced, furious, her fair hair flying. I had scuttled out, but she’d followed me on to the pavement.

‘It’s you!’

I had thought, for a heart-stopping moment, I’d been recognised for who I really was. ‘What?’

‘I know you. You’re the one who’s been fucking my husband.’

I took a step back, years of prison experience kicking in, already thinking how to run, or if necessary how to fight her off. An elbow to the jaw, perhaps, or a swift kick to the knee.