‘Probably eight o’clock. By the time I’d placed the order and returned home, I’d say it was around then.’

‘And your wife was at home when you returned?’

‘Yes,’ the couple said, in unison.

‘So, you arrived home approximately between seven-twenty and eight o’clock, is that correct?’ Palmer jotted down on his notepad.

‘That sounds right,’ Pauline agreed.

‘But a moment ago you said you were at home by seven o’clock,’ Barrett cut in.

‘Approximately. I couldn’t remember exactly.’ Pauline looked like a woman caught with her pants down.

‘How did you travel to and from the meeting at Mrs Bolton’s house?’ Palmer fired at her.

‘I drove.’

‘And approximately,’ Barrett’s eyes twinkled a little, ‘how long would you say it takes you to get to the address?’

‘From here, I’d say no more than thirty minutes. Depending on the traffic.’

‘And you can’t remember the exact time you returned home on that day?’

‘Not the exact time.’ Pauline was visibly flustered. ‘Sometime between seven and eight.’

Palmer and Barrett both knew the time of death was around 7pm, and Pauline didn’t have a solid alibi.

‘Pauline Robinson, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder …’ Barrett stepped closer to Pauline, whose face filled with horror.

‘What?’ Roger’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

‘We will be taking you to the station where a formal interview will take place.’

‘You can’t do this!’ Roger’s face was puce.

‘Sir, please step out of the way.’ Palmer towered over the little man who looked like a kettle about to boil.

‘She’s not done anything wrong.’

‘We have evidence to the contrary.’ Barrett led the stunned Pauline out of the house and into the back of the car.

‘I’ll get a solicitor!’ Roger called from the doorway, still wearing his slippers, looking enraged. ‘Don’t say a word until you’ve been given legal advice.’

As Pauline sat in the back of the car, tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t look at Roger as the car pulled away, in case it was the last time she ever saw him, as a free woman.

Rushing back into the house, Roger, with a shaking hand, picked up the telephone and dialled Marion Bolton’s landline. When Alfred answered, Roger thought he was going to pass out with relief.

‘I need your help.’ His breathless words were hurried. ‘It’s Pauline. She’s in trouble.’

‘Slow down, Roger.’ Alfred held the phone to his ear and spoke calmly.

‘The police have arrested her!’ Roger squealed.

‘What? Why?’ Alfred did his best to process the news.

‘They think she had something to do with Toni’s death.’

Despite not having much in common, the two men often played golf together. Neither minded the other’s company and it was handy having a golf buddy who lived close by.

‘How can I help?’