He’d been told that he couldn’t hold his wife until after the autopsy. She was to be sliced up like some laboratory animal and he couldn’t comfort her.

They went in. He swallowed hard and tried to keep the pain from exploding out of him. Another uniform was in the room, and Thomas realised that he was there as a heavy, to make sure he didn’t go crazy and barge behind the screen to hold and kiss his dead wife. His stomach hit his knees as he turned and saw the table beyond the glass screen. The woman went behind the screen and looked at him. His hands were clammy and his throat constricted.

She turned back the sheet, just to Ella’s neck. Thomas’s legs collapsed and he fell to the floor, hitting it hard. He could hear himself babbling on about being sorry. A man’s voice spoke and a hand helped him up.

‘Thomas?’

‘It’s her. It’s Ella.’ The sobs came.

The sheet was replaced and the woman came back out of the room and indicated that it was time to leave. It was over. Thomas’s whole body cried out to hold her, yearning for her to caress him, to take his hand and hug him in return. He could smell her perfume, bought last Christmas, still clinging to her dead skin. If only he could make love to her one last time and tell her how much he adored her. His face was soaking wet and snot dribbled down his chin.

The woman blocked his view and he turned towards the door. A cacophony of bangs and clangs bombarded his head. He couldn’t remember getting the lift upstairs but found himself in an office. Somebody brought him coffee, and tissues.

A different woman sat opposite him – he’d lost count of everyone who’d dealt with him this afternoon – and he realised that now it was time for the questions. No doubt questions about his marriage. He knew the game: the police had to rule him out as a suspect. It was their job. He had to prove that he hadn’t hired some thug to take Ella out. He looked at the woman intently. Her eyes were green and her hair was auburn. Her skin was clean and fresh like Ella’s had been in life. The male uniformed officer who’d taken him downstairs stood behind her.

‘Hello, Thomas – may I call you Thomas? I’m Detective Inspector Kelly Porter. Take your time.’

He took a sip of coffee and blew his nose. He must look like crap. He felt like crap. He took a deep breath.

‘I’m ready,’ he said. ‘And you may call me Thomas.’

‘Thank you. You understand that this is procedure.’ He nodded. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. Mrs Watson – Ella – was a keen jogger, I believe?’

Was.

It crushed him. He nodded.