Rachel withdrew her hand. ‘Sorry, you’re right. Stupid of me.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I just think you’re being so brave.’

I walked home in a foul mood. It was still raining, and so murky that you couldn’t sense when day ended and night began. Rachel’s words had irritated me. Why couldn’t she just have said: Good luck! Can we come and stay? We’ll miss you! This was compounded by my abortive visit to the post office. I’d gone there to tax my car, only to be told I’d brought along the wrong insurance document. Boring things like this had been Greg’s job. In some ways I was shamefully unreconstructed. Poor Greg, lumbered with insurance documents, and boiler instructions, and rip-off plumbers, and anything to do with my computer. He used to spend half the day trying to get through to call centres while I sat in the kitchen, feet on the table, swigging wine and complaining to Azra about male oppression.

I suddenly missed him so sharply it took away my breath. This was happening more and more often nowadays; the Calvin episode had cast a new perspective on my marriage. And saying farewell to the house reminded me so painfully of those early days, when Greg and I were newly married and moving in with such high hopes. There were sitting tenants on the top floor—an elderly couple who soon conveniently died. Heavens, I hadn’t thought about them for years. As I trudged home, my hair dripping, I suddenly longed for Greg. Not for the first time, I thought how very much nicer he was than Calvin. And more honest. And better read. And more left wing. And not a murderer.

I arrived home. I had a shower. I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly six o’clock, not that this made much difference. I opened a bottle of wine and poured myself a glass. I took a Serves One moussaka from the freezer and put it in the oven. I went into the living room, sat on the sofa and opened my laptop. Flossie jumped onto my lap and kneaded me with her needle claws. I lifted her off. She jumped back again. I drank some wine and started looking at my emails.

The front doorbell rang. I flung away the cat, walked down the hallway and opened the door.

A woman stood there, haloed by the light of the porch. For a moment I didn’t recognise who it was; her hair was grey and shingled short.

It was Azra. She held out a carrier bag for my inspection, as if I knew what it contained.

And I did.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked, and stepped into the hall. She took a pot out of the bag. It was a small ceramic urn, grey-green and painted with lotus blossoms. Its lid was firmly sealed with black duct tape.