On the walk down to the High Street, I’ve established that talk of Malo getting married is a little premature. Sylvester’s a lovely guy, he says, but he has a habit of jumping the gun. He and Clem are back in harness, and whenever he’s in London they’re out on training runs together. If I really want to know, he’d love to move the relationship on, but he thinks she’s not quite ready.

‘For marriage?’

‘For me. She wants to give it more time. Like she can’t believe I’m not drinking any more. And that’s just one thing I’ve knocked on the head.’

It’s true. I’m looking at his glass. My son? Necking pints of fizzy water? We’re sitting side by side. I give him a kiss, which he normally hates, but this time he doesn’t even flinch.

‘So, what happened?’ He wants the details. ‘They really banged you up?’

‘They did.’

‘And?’

‘It was horrible. You go in good faith. You expect them to believe you, but it turns out they don’t. They think I was there when Christianne died. That makes me an accessory to murder.’

‘And were you?’

‘What?’

‘There? When she died?’

‘Of course I wasn’t.’ I’m getting angry again. Even my son doesn’t believe me. ‘Don’t you remember me coming home that Sunday? Driving back? You were in the flat.’

‘I was. You’re right. And they checked up on me, too. A policewoman. Tracked me down to Clemmie’s place. Quite fit, actually.’

‘Fit?’

‘The policewoman. How come Asians are always so pretty?’

I ignore the question. I need to know when this happened.

‘This morning. That’s why I came down. They arrested Sylvester, too. I saw that poster. The Budleigh Six? You’re going to be famous, Mum.’ He’s grinning fit to bust. ‘Brilliant.’

I shake my head. There’s been nothing brilliant about the Heavitree custody centre, about DI Bullivant, about accusations of murder, about the prospect of a lengthy jail sentence, and the news that Bullivant’s still checking my alibi has spilled the wind from my sails. The sheer momentum of the campaign that Mitch and Beth have launched has – just for an hour or two – convinced me that the nightmare is over. Wrong.

I want to change the subject. I want us back on safer ground. Doomsday and the Twilight Fund seem a much brighter prospect than whatever the next few days might hold.

‘It’s going well?’ I ask. ‘You and Sylvester?’

‘It’s going fine. Sylvester says it’s a slow burn, bound to be, but the Doomsday Clock thing is only a month away and he says that’s sure to make a difference.’

Doomsday Clock? In all the excitement of resisting a murder charge, I’d forgotten about the end of the world.

‘This is when they adjust their predictions? Am I right?’