‘Your Honour, in order to spare the witness, I will read the contents of the note, if I may,’ the barrister says, and she lifts up her photocopied version and reads out loud in a firm voice: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do this any more.’

At this, you lift a hand and cover your face, your long pale fingers spread. The whole court falls silent. Then the barrister says, again gently, ‘Dr Goodison, I just have one more question for you. I’m sorry, but could you confirm to the court exactly where and when you discovered this note?’

Matty’s shoulders lift and drop a couple of times. He removes his hand and takes a deep breath. There are no tears on his face but it is set hard, the lines etched, and very pale, as though it were plaster of Paris that has hardened. ‘I found that note after the police left, later that morning I mean, when they came round to tell me Lisa had died,’ he says. ‘It was on the kitchen counter next to the kettle, set back in the corner, just to one side and behind the kettle, that’s why I hadn’t noticed it earlier when they were there. If Lisa had left it in a more prominent position, I would have seen it and I might have been able to do something in time, gone after her perhaps.’

‘You found the note after the police had left that morning, after they had told you that Lisa Evans was, sadly, deceased?’

He nods.

Oh Matty, Matty. Even when it comes to the lie about the note you have to add that exculpatory detail – if I had left it in a more prominent position, you would have seen it in time. You cannot allow anyone to think there is even one ounce of responsibility at your door, even in the matter of not noticing a note.

On the night that I really wrote that note, four weeks before, I did indeed leave it fully visible on the end of the counter top. It was gone when I got back and I never asked about it – it was a note ending our relationship. I had no idea Matty had kept it. Why did you keep it, Matty? Just in case you ever needed evidence of how bonkers I was?

If it were not for the note, the Coroner might have recorded an accidental or open verdict – my parents and all the other people who loved me would have grieved for me just as much but at least they might have been able to believe that it was a senseless and awful accident, a moment of disastrous ignorance as I crossed the tracks.