I think of Siobhan Harte in the corridor, imagine what she’ll say about Beth when they get her in a room.

‘My daughter had a tendency to form strong attachments to certain people in her life – her friend Lisa. And she was very close to her aunt. To Melissa. She was troubled when she died.’

Disturbed.

My mouth has become dry, and I take a moment to drink from the glass of water they’ve left out for me. I wonder if she sees my hand shaking.

‘But when we went to France,’ I continue, ‘I began to worry that Corinne was too controlling. That she understood the influence she had over Beth and would sometimes abuse it.’

‘In what way?’

The hair, the tattoo, the behaviour. How paltry it sounds when detailed aloud.

‘So why did you have her return to you? Why not end the association?’

I snap at her: ‘Don’t you think I wish we had?’

Instantly, I regret my rage. The emotions whirr inside me, vying to be released. I tell myself that I need to stay calm. It’s important that I get through this without losing it. There will be time later to fall apart.

She waits for me to answer.

‘Her father had died while we were staying with them. An accident. I suppose we felt we owed it to her … And there was never anything to suggest … Nothing at all to suggest that she would …’

I can’t say it. I cannot say the words out loud.

‘So, what happened, Abi? When did things go sour?’

‘I don’t know,’ I tell her, but it’s only partially true.

‘Have you called her mother yet?’ I ask. ‘Has anyone told Valentina?’

‘That’s been taken care of.’

‘What did she say? How did she react?’

Detective Cassins fixes me with a patient stare. A look that says: how do you think she’d react? An image of a gendarme arriving at La Grange. Valentina opening the door, seeing the uniform. Anouk, she would think, leaping to the conclusion. And then shock, disbelief, the opening out of horror as he tells her, as he explains.

‘She didn’t want Corinne to come,’ I volunteer. ‘Did you know that? The first time, I mean. Back in April. Before they’d even met.’ I hear the amazement in my tone, and perhaps I am amazed, in hindsight, at the woman’s perception. ‘She rang us the night before Corinne was to fly. I’d never spoken to her before. She sounded agitated, anxious about the exchange. I thought it was just nerves, but …’

I look down at my hands. I’ve been twisting my rings, fingering them like worry beads. And now I see the bruising, there on the fingers either side of my rings. Purple smudges. And I remember Ross Campbell squeezing my hand. Holding on to it for dear life. Desperation in his voice as he prayed. He begged.