The image flashes before my eyes again: that collection of bones laid out upon the cushions. I press my hands to my head, pressing it away, and try to make sense of the officer’s question. ‘Maybe …’ I try to think of the simplest answer: one that won’t trigger more questions, more suspicion. ‘Maybe she didn’t actually cancel her rent? Is it possible that her money just … ran out? And then …’ I lift my head. I think I can see it. ‘If she’d been paying her utility bills by quarterly direct debit – November to February, that’s three months – wouldn’t that mean her electricity wouldn’t yet be shut off?’

The officer looks at me; she seems faintly impressed, as if I’ve done well to construct such a theory. Or does she think I’ve worked this all out beforehand and now I’m just trotting it out to cover something up?

‘Well,’ she says. ‘That we can probably check.’ She nods as though she’s satisfied for now and I hold her gaze until she turns over to a fresh page in her notebook. ‘We don’t even know for sure yet that it’s her,’ she continues. ‘Hopefully we’ll know from the results of a post mortem. We’ve taken some personal items from the flat – a hairbrush, toothbrush – that we can hopefully check against bone DNA.’

More details, pressing into my brain. I rest my hand against my temple, as though I can protect myself that way.

‘Did you visit the flat recently?’ The officer pushes on with her questions and I’ve promised myself I will tell the truth. I only lied on the spreadsheet, and it was only that once.

‘I delivered the last letter by hand. Just through the letterbox. I didn’t see her.’

‘When?’

I check. ‘A week ago.’

‘But you didn’t go in?’

For a dizzying moment I’m really not sure. I can’t remember. I have to check the notes I’ve printed out, the notes in which I know I didn’t lie. I look at them and say, certain now: ‘No, I didn’t.’

The officer holds my gaze for a moment then looks back down at her own notes. I realize I’ve clasped my hands together and I am twisting them hard enough to rub the skin raw. ‘I have a son …’ I begin and stop. How can that be an excuse? How can I expect anyone to understand? All of the problems with Charlie last year were my own, nobody else’s business but mine. My voice is small. I am over thirty but I feel like a child again. ‘I missed some of the checks. Last year, I was having some difficulties. I didn’t carry out all the inspections I should have done. I’m sorry. I am really sorry.’