For it had all been poisoned, a chemical spill seeping into the landscape of our months together. Had it all been a lie? I felt nauseous, but with a dogged compulsion I went back over every contaminated moment—the silliness and chattiness, the lovemaking, the impulsive jaunts to late-night restaurants where Calvin’s entrance had turned the place festive. I hadn’t felt this sense of betrayal since Greg and Azra. This time it was even more sickening.

But I needed the facts. Sitting in the visitors’ hall, we were cut off from the outside world. Far off, the faint roar of the inmates was like the roar of the ocean. We were marooned together. I remembered that day on the Goodwin Sands, Calvin’s hands clamped around my throat. We could get away with murder and nobody could touch us.

‘Tell me more about Angie,’ I said. ‘What changed between you?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Of course.’

He gazed at me with his small, piggy eyes. Yes! I could admit it now. I’d romanticised this man, so strong was my longing for companionship. He sat there in his plastic chair—sandy eyelashes, lizard skin, all the life drained out of him. A pathetic little murderer who had almost got away with it.

‘I don’t know why you come here, week after week,’ he whined. ‘Why do you come here? Why don’t you just get on with your life?’

‘Tell me what happened. Don’t you owe me that?’

He tore the wrapper from his KitKat. ‘All right then.’

For years they were happy. Angie loved animals. Animals wanted nothing from her and gave her unconditional love; many abused women find solace in pets. She loved her horse, Conker, and won prizes for eventing. She dabbled in interior design. She and Calvin held their legendary parties, where she binged on drugs and on several occasions passed out. For sure, Angie had her problems but Calvin looked after her; that was his role. He was a traditional sort of chap and it suited him fine. His business couldn’t support their lifestyle but in the early years that wasn’t a problem. It was Angie’s money that bought the house and paid for the renovations, but she understood men and their need to be in control—she’d had plenty of experience—and passed the financial matters over to him. The fact that she paid the bills was never mentioned.

Calvin didn’t tell me the details. I filled them in for myself—the men colliding with lampposts, the uncle’s damp moustache. I’ve always had a strong imagination. As she became fleshed out, my reconstructed Angie was no doubt an altered creature from the Angie he’d known, but I was getting a picture of their marriage and the trouble that started brewing towards the end.