She wraps her hands round the mug, taking solace from its heat. She thinks about phoning Kal, but knows he won’t take the call, and wonders when the police might be speaking to him. What will he say, about her and Jonathan? Did he know about the affair?

She listens to the silent house – there is nothing except the slow tick from the clock on the wall, the hum from the refrigerator. Is this how it’s going to be now? Time, stretching out, with nothing to occupy her? Work have signed her off for a fortnight, and Amy knows there are probably things she should be doing. People to notify about Jonathan’s death, paperwork to fill in. A funeral to arrange. But she assumes it won’t be for a while, now that they’re going to do a post-mortem.

Just procedure, the detective said. And the thought of it makes her hands shake again.

Her phone rings in front of her, making her jump. She’s jolted the mug, and a splash of tea has hit the tabletop, leaving a yellow puddle. No Caller ID. The police again? But she answers the phone.

‘Mrs Miller? This is the doctor’s surgery. We wanted to call you as soon as possible. Your results are back.’

It’s a woman, kind voice, talking slowly. ‘Results?’ Amy asks.

‘Yes, from your blood tests? The fertility results?’

‘Oh! Yes.’ How could that have escaped her mind? The police interview must have rattled her more than she’d thought.

‘It’s good news, Mrs Miller. Your progesterone levels came back within expected limits, confirming an ovulatory cycle. So there’s nothing here that would indicate anything other than normal fertility at this stage.’

‘And my husband’s results? Jonathan Miller.’

‘Oh, er…’ There’s a pause and tapping on a keyboard. ‘Nothing back yet for Mr Miller, I’m afraid. We’ll call as soon as something comes through. And then it might be worth us booking an ultrasound, check your ovarian reserve. Explore other reasons why you might be having trouble conceiving.’

Amy thanks the woman, then hangs up.

Normal. The relief floods through her. And even though Jonathan’s results aren’t back yet, she knows what they’ll say. It was him. His fault. She takes a celebratory sip of her cooling tea, a smile on her face.

She was right.

12

It’s late by the time Robin makes it home, doing a messy parallel park in the road outside his house, key in the door, shoes carelessly discarded into the cupboard under the stairs. His first port of call is the fridge. He picks up a bottle of beer, opens it, then downs it almost in one, standing there with the fridge door open. He leaves the empty bottle on the side then takes out another and carries it up the stairs to his bedroom to get changed.