‘Some kind of new evidence has come to light.’

‘What does that mean?’ I was confused.

Was it my imagination, or was there a strange light in her eyes?

‘I don’t know. All I know right now is they’re adjourning the case for a few days.’ She clutched my arm. ‘Keep everything crossed for your poor husband.’

‘I am,’ I smiled shakily. ‘Believe me, I am.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

The moon was a chalk circle etched on the pale sky as I walked through the dusky city. Dodging tourists still snapping St Paul’s, I felt confused and washed out. My exhaustion was immense. At least now, I thought, trying to fix on a bright spot, at least I can go back to my parents and be with the kids. We might have to wait some more, but at least it’s nearly over.

Outside Jen’s flat, I was searching for the doorkey when my mobile rang.

‘Hello? Rose Langton?’ a creaky voice asked. ‘I saw you on the news at lunch-time. It jogged my memory.’

‘Sorry,’ I couldn’t place her, ‘who is this?’

‘I found something a while back, but I have to be honest, it’s been sitting in the in-tray.’ Peggy from Cutting Out. ‘Getting a bit forgetful, if I’m honest. You’ll have to come back if you want to see it. The fax is broken.’

The fax had been broken as long as I’d known her.

‘It might be tricky right now.’ I’d lost interest. I’d lost my fight. ‘I’m a bit tied up.’

‘It’s up to you, dear. I think you’ll be interested but – your choice. I’ll be here until seven.’

I hesitated on the corner of Jen’s square, and then a black cab trundled past. I took it as a sign, though this time I didn’t bother with the Pernod.

‘Sorry, dear,’ she said unapologetically as I walked through the door. ‘You slipped my mind, if I’m honest.’

‘Nice suntan.’ I admired her deep mahogany colour, against which her orange lipstick was more alarming than ever. The smell of cats was even stronger today in the fetid basement.

‘Yes, well, I popped over to see my dear friend the Sphinx. One never knows when it might be the last time, you know.’

‘Don’t say that, Peggy.’

‘Well, it’s true. Time waits for no woman, as they say, my dear.’ She rummaged through several wire trays, muttering to herself constantly. ‘I know it’s here somewhere.’

I turned over a copy of today’s Telegraph, a flurry of cat hairs wafting into the air as I did so. The front page bore a big picture of Lord Higham shaking hands with Boris Johnson outside City Hall.

‘UK Nationalists stride towards Westminster,’ the headline crowed. I shuddered.

‘One giant leap for racism?’ the Guardian asked. Thank God for Xav.