I flash back to the credit card in my hand. His introduction. Peter. Daubney. Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s reported the credit card. She’s already linked it.

‘Yes. Yes, it was. How …?’

I hear rustling and a chair scraping roughly.

‘OK, look, are you at home? I’ll come round. Stay where you are.’

She’s gone and I sit at the table and wait for her, knowing that you’ll be trying to get hold of her as well. You’ll be trying to report me for faking a Facebook account. So I go outside and take a pay-as-you-go mobile out of the hole. Its battery and chip are tied to it by an elastic band, and I quickly set it up and log into Monica’s Facebook. I set it up ready to post a comment under the picture. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to cause all this fuss. It was just a laugh.’ And a smiley face, naturally. Then I slip it into the bottom of the grill pan that’s resting on top of the cooker. This is working out well. I can use the police to set you up and after this they’ll be absolutely sure it’s not me posting because they’ll be here when made-up Monica presses the button. God, this is tricky, but it’ll be worth it when they don’t believe anything you say.

The doorbell sounds. She’s already here. So quickly. I flick on the kettle and let her in. She’s got a younger plain-clothes officer with her.

‘Hello, Dr Atkinson. This is DS Smith. So, can you tell me exactly what happened last night?’

DS Smith goes to stand by the back door, presumably to stop me making a run for it. But I’m staying right here.

‘Oh. Caroline, please. It’s a little bit embarrassing really. You see I … I … look. Can I make you a coffee?’

They look at each other and she raises her eyebrows at him. Then she nods.

‘Yes, OK.’

I flick the kettle back on and it takes only a second to boil. Meanwhile, I’m putting coffee in cups, enquiring about sugar and secretly posting Monica’s comment. They’re so busy checking out the shit that I’ve piled everywhere that they don’t notice me lift the grill pan slightly and push the send button.

‘There. So, as I said, it’s a little bit embarrassing. I was in the Premier Inn bar and I got talking to this man. Next thing I knew we were in his room. Having … er …’

‘Intercourse?’

She looks mildly shocked.

‘Yes. Yes. I was very drunk, I’m afraid.’

‘Right. And what time did you leave?’

I pretend to think.

‘About six o’clock. I ordered a taxi and came straight home. Then when I got to work these pictures had been left in the common room. So how did you know it was him?’