“You’d better tell me now,” she said.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” I said.

Anybody who’s ever watched The Bill or Casualty knows what that means. Melinda started back then caught herself. She nearly lost it, but then I saw it all being sucked back behind the mask of her face.

“When?” she asked.

“Two nights ago,” I said. “It was a heart attack.”

She looked at me stupidly. “A heart attack?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She nodded. “Why are you here?” she asked.

I was saved from having to lie because a mini cab pulled up outside the house and honked its horn. Melinda turned, stared at the front door, and was rewarded when Simone emerged carrying her two suitcases. The driver, showing an uncharacteristic level of chivalry, rushed smartly over to take the cases from her and loaded them into the back of his cab while she locked the front door—both the Yale and the Chubb, I noticed.

“You bitch,” shouted Melinda.

Simone ignored her and headed for the cab, which had exactly the effect on Melinda that I expected it to have. “Yes you,” she shouted. “He’s dead, you bitch. And you couldn’t even be fucking bothered to tell me. That’s my house, you fat slag.”

Simone looked up at that, and at first I didn’t think she’d recognized who Melinda was, but then she nodded to herself and absently threw the house keys in our general direction. They landed at Melinda’s feet.

I know ballistic when I see it coming and so I already had my hand around her upper arm before she could rush across the street and try to kick the shit out of Simone. Maintaining the Queen’s Peace—that’s what it’s all about. For a skinny little thing Melinda wasn’t half strong and I ended up having to use both hands as she screamed abuse over my shoulder, making my ears ring.

“Would you like me to arrest you?” I asked. That’s an old police trick: If you just warn people they often just ignore you, but if you ask them a question then they have to think about it. Once they start to think about the consequences they almost always calm down, unless they’re drunk of course, or stoned, or aged between fourteen and twenty-one, or Glaswegian.

Fortunately it had the desired effect on Melinda, who paused in her screaming long enough for the mini cab to drive away. Once I was sure she wasn’t going to attack me out of frustration, an occupational hazard if you’re the police, I bent down, retrieved the keys, and put them in her hands.

“Is there someone you can call?” I asked. “Someone who’ll come around and stay with you for a bit?”

She shook her head. “I’m just going to wait in my car,” she said. “Thank you.”