‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just so weird – how could it happen again?’ And there it was, the question everyone would ask. How could someone be accused of murder, falsely accused that way, twice? The only way that could happen was if you were really guilty, like so many people still thought about me. Although I avoided the internet as much as possible, it was hard not to see things, and Jeremy often referred to it, although I had asked him not to.

‘I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is – someone wanted me to find her like that.’ It sounded crazy. Would he believe me? Wasn’t the simplest answer that I was, indeed, a murderer? I waited.

‘You mean – killed her so you would find her?’

‘God, I don’t know. It’s all I can imagine.’

‘OK. So who could it be?’

Poor Jeremy. He always believed everything I told him. At first, back then, running as hard as I could from the prison I thought I’d die in, I had fled into his arms. It had meant everything to me, to be believed, when every word I’d spoken for five years had been scrutinised for lies, twisted, used against me. But it quickly wore thin. Almost two years we lived together in a small flat in Broadstairs, before I ran again. Jeremy left me his surname, at least, which was something. A screen to hide behind. Mrs Caldwell, and my middle name, Rachel. Not Casey Adams any more.

‘I’ve no idea who,’ I said. ‘Any number of people might want to see me suffer. I mean, you read the forums online.’ I knew there were still several websites dedicated to proving my guilt, and discounting the appeal findings. ‘One of the Safran family, even. They definitely thought I was guilty. Ruth – the aunt, maybe.’ I remembered Ruth Safran screaming in my face outside the court, her spittle landing on my cheek, not being able to wipe it off. How terrible that had felt, how I’d developed a nervous tic of wiping my cheek that had never truly left me. But Ruth was in America. Wasn’t she? She lived in Texas and I didn’t think had ever left the US. She’d never liked me, with my short skirts and tight vests. I was just a normal British girl, but in the conservative American South that was enough to get you burned at the stake.

I could hear Jeremy thinking hard, and it was nice, to talk to someone who knew the case inside out, better than me almost.

‘I can look into it,’ he said, and I could hear him taking notes already. ‘Who else was there?’