‘At work. I’m on days this week: I’m a sous chef at the Hotel Continental in town. And I went out with my sister on Monday night. Since Jonathan was working. Or so I thought.’

‘And you were off work this weekend?’

‘Yes, I get one in four. Lucky really, given that…’

The tears come swiftly now, and Robin hands her another tissue. She wipes her eyes, delicately dabbing to avoid transferring mascara underneath.

‘Have you managed to find out what he was doing at that hotel?’ She sniffs.

‘We believe it was— Well, what it looked like. Mrs Miller, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Were you aware of Jonathan doing anything like this in the past?’

She shakes her head, a quick motion. ‘No, no, not at all.’

‘And your sex life? It was… er…’

Amy’s face goes red and she looks down at her hands. ‘Pretty normal,’ she replies.

‘Mrs Miller? Please? Anything you say will be strictly between us, and it would be helpful to get a complete view of your husband.’

‘Well, he… we…’ She stutters for a moment. ‘He liked it when I talked dirty.’

Robin does his best not to show his disappointment. ‘Saying what?’ he asks as sensitively as he can.

‘You know, fuck me harder, that kind of stuff.’

Robin leans back in his chair. It was hardly Fifty Shades of Grey, nothing that would explain why he’d been found as he had.

‘And your face?’ he asks, pointing to the bruise on her forehead. It’s faded to no more than a yellow and green smudge, but still visible under her foundation.

‘This? Oh!’ Amy Miller looks surprised. ‘I walked into an open cupboard door. You know, silly accident. You don’t think—’ She stops. ‘Jonathan didn’t do this!’ she exclaims. ‘Jonathan was the nicest, the gentlest, the most loving…’

Her voice trails off and she starts sobbing, harder this time. Robin sits forward awkwardly, offering her the tissue box again, but she doesn’t take one. Instead, her eyes stay cast downward, her hands covering her mouth. ‘I always tried to make him happy, do things the way he wanted,’ she mumbles. ‘I know I wasn’t the best wife.’

They end the interview. Robin waits as Amy writes down names – her sister from Monday night, the other people at the party on Friday, the name of the takeaway they used on Saturday – and they walk together towards the door. But before she goes, as much as he doesn’t like to ask, Robin needs to know.

‘Mrs Miller, did your husband stay away a lot?’

She stands in the doorway, grasping the handle of her handbag tightly. ‘A bit. With work.’

‘Weekends?’