‘So be it.’ Bullivant writes himself a note. Tiny handwriting. Each letter perfectly formed. Anal bastard. ‘Our point is this, Ms Andressen. We think your friend may have died on that chaise, and our working assumption is that the dog would also have been put to sleep. There was obviously a coffin readied for the two bodies. I think we can say that with some assurance. Can you confirm that, Ms Andressen? Was the coffin delivered to the bungalow on that Saturday night? Under cover of darkness? And were you in attendance when Ms Beaucarne, the victim, died? That letter she left you suggests a very close, a very warm relationship. You tell us you only knew the victim for a couple of days. I’m afraid we only have your word on that. Might you care to explain how long you’d really known her? And why you lied to us in this regard?’

The word ‘victim’ does it for me. I scarcely heard the rest of the question.

‘Victim is right,’ I say. ‘Much more right than you know. Was she suffering? Yes. Was she picked on? Again yes. But by MND, motor neurone disease, not me, nor anyone else. Do you understand that distinction? Or should I try again?’

‘By all means, Ms Andressen. And why not tell us a little more about you and Ms Beaucarne, while you’re at it.’

I’m angry now, and he knows it. So does Tony Morse. The pressure of his foot on mine is nearly unbearable. Button your lip. Wind your neck in. Like I told you before, this man is playing games with you.

‘Well, Ms Andressen?’ Bullivant is still waiting for an answer.

‘No comment,’ I mutter, ducking my head.

The next flurry of questions pass in a blur. Tony’s right. By losing what little cool I have left, I’ve fallen into this man’s trap. He’s touched a nerve that matters to me, and from my point of view, this second session has turned into a car crash.

Over the next few minutes, while I stonewall every question, Bullivant tries to wind me up again. How difficult it must have been for me to watch a close friend dying. How I may have rationalized what remains a crime, told myself I was doing what I was doing with the very best of intentions. How, indeed, I’d taken up the cudgels against the law of the land on my friend’s behalf.

‘Might any of that be the case, Ms Andressen? Couldn’t you feel her pain? Feel it your duty to send her on her way? Wasn’t that, dare I say it, a Christian thing to do?’

This, I know, is deliberately provocative. Evelyn would be over the table by now, scratching his eyes out.

‘No comment,’ I mutter.