The wife who walked out on him. Because Bob was constantly shagging other women. Or because he was constantly talking about shagging other women. Or because it wasn’t actually women he wanted to shag.

I’m not even sure Bob knows.

The best I can manage right now is, ‘Shit happens sometimes, mate.’

‘Why would someone kill her?’ Clare asks, from nowhere.

Bob looks horrified. ‘Someone killed Sandra?’

I put my hand on his arm and tell him that nobody’s killed his ex-wife and that everything’s OK. Then I turn and give Clare a good, hard look. She’s been sitting watching me for twenty minutes, keeping shtum even though she looks like she’s got plenty to say. Like she’s trying to psych me out, you know what I mean?

I can hear Perera’s voice: How does that make you feel?

Properly uncomfortable, if I’m honest.

What is her fucking game?

‘You tell me,’ I say.

‘I haven’t got the foggiest,’ she says. ‘How could I?’

Why would someone kill her?

All whispery and wide-eyed, she is. Above it all. As if what’s happened is just incomprehensible and she’s asking the most difficult question in the world. Like it’s something she can’t possibly know anything about, while she’s conveniently ignoring the fact that if I’m the obvious suspect – because I thought Debbie killed Kevin and I found the body – then the fact that Debbie was murdered five minutes after she arrived on the ward makes Tiny Tears a pretty close second.

‘Oh, come on, don’t be shy,’ I say. ‘If you’ve got a theory then let’s hear it. Obviously you’ll have shared it with the police by now, but don’t keep the rest of us in suspense.’

It probably came out a little more spiteful than I intended and her eyes start to brim with tears as per bloody usual. I don’t feel bad, though. I’m perfectly happy to sit here and watch her weeping herself to soggy pieces.

‘I was just making conversation,’ she says.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m interested, that’s all.’ Her head drops but, by sheer force of will she heroically holds the tears at bay. When she looks up again, there’s a hint of mischief, which I do not like one bit. ‘You know who killed her though, don’t you?’

‘Who told you that?’

Even if she intends to tell me, she can’t get the words out through the volley of racking sobs that she simply can’t fight off a moment longer. She splutters and gulps. She presses her hands to her face to staunch the tsunami of convenient waterworks.

Doesn’t much matter. I’m guessing gobby Lauren said something.

George appears in the doorway to see what the matter is.

Jesus H Christ . . .