‘But I’m not like that,’ Louise said, loudly. She suddenly sat back, put her hands up to her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear on each side before folding her hands together in front of her. Jonah wasn’t sure if it might be calculated, but the effect was somehow more respectable. The tucked-back hair and the folded hands. Age-old signals of self-containment. Of virtue. ‘I’m a married woman, and I don’t go flirting with men I don’t know.’

Jonah considered this in the light of what she had said about her husband. About his ability to make everything her fault. He thought that a married woman who felt criticised might well try to flirt. And the flip side was that Niall Reakes might have had reason not to trust his wife.

Louise was holding his gaze, that earnestness still there. Believe me, she was saying silently. You have to believe me.

Jonah broke the gaze. He looked towards the wall, which still showed the last frame of the projected video.

‘Detective Sergeant O’Malley is now going to show you an image. I’d like to know if you recognise this knife.’

Louise’s head dropped in exasperation. But she looked at the screen, where O’Malley had put up a photo of the bloodied knife with its elaborate ornamental handle.

‘No,’ Louise said, firmly. ‘I don’t. Except from when I saw it next to … to Alex, on the ground.’ And then she shuddered and looked away.

‘It’s fairly distinctive,’ Jonah said.

‘I can see that,’ Louise said, slightly more quietly, her gaze on the table. ‘And that makes me one hundred per cent certain that I’d never seen it before.’ She gave a long breath out, and then lifted her chin a little. ‘Look, I want to help you. I want to know who killed him. It was right – right where I live. I want them to be caught.’ Her jaw trembled slightly. ‘But I can’t, because it wasn’t me. I don’t know him, and I’m sorry that I can’t help.’

Jonah watched her. Read her expression, and wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing there.

Phoebe Plaskitt’s house, out in much snowier Winchester, was named The Dovecote. It had clearly started out as its name implied, before someone had decided to turn it into a dwelling. As a result, it had been extended in a style that was basically in keeping but which had left it looking off-centre. The cote itself was to the far right, with the front door at the other end.

The young woman who opened the door to them was probably twenty-five, Hanson thought. She was a lot shorter than Alex, and lacked his muscle. But the cheekbones, eyebrows and chin were almost identical to their victim’s.