He shakes his head. He’s joking, he says, but I don’t find it the least bit funny. The day the consultant told me I had a tumour in my brain rapidly became surreal. Not me. No way. Not at my age. This, years later, isn’t life-threatening but I feel exactly the same sense of dislocation, of fragments of the world I thought I knew whirling away in some cosmic wind. Helplessness is too small a word. A bunch of strangers have taken a very close look at Christianne’s departure and decided that I’m to blame. Telling them they’re wrong, trying to point out that the whole thing is absurd, simply confirms their suspicions. And now, the one man who might – just conceivably – make a difference is about to climb in his car and hit the road.

‘Are the rest still banged up as well? Are you allowed to tell me?’

‘All but one. Beth. They released her an hour ago.’

‘On police bail?’

‘It seems not.’

I nod. She must have painted the inside of that coffin. How on earth did she explain that?

Tony is itching to get away. He’s made some calls and a solicitor called Andrea Gifford will be down to the custody centre first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll press for fresh disclosure from DI Bullivant, and Tony has already briefed her on the thrust of today’s interviews.

‘I’m guessing that was a long conversation.’ I’m trying to muster a smile.

‘You guess right. Did today go well? Not really. Do we now know where they’re headed with this thing? Absolutely. And can we head them off at the pass? No question about it. Andrea’s good. Take her advice, my darling. Who knows, it might come better from a woman.’

He gives me a brief hug, wishes me all the luck in the world, and consigns me to the care of a hovering turnkey. My last image of him is that trademark way he flips up the collar of his cashmere coat as he steps into the gathering dusk.

The turnkey returns me to my cell. Its very bareness is deeply depressing, giving me no choice but to lie on my side on the thin mattress, and close my eyes against the brightness of the overhead light. As far as I can tell, it’s early evening. They may or may not bring me something to eat, but even the prospect of food makes me nauseous. Earlier, around lunchtime, I’d smelled chips in the closeness of the corridors outside. Burgers, I suspect. Probably imported from the McDonald’s up the road.