As I rattled on Evan gazed at me speculatively, cocktail stick poised. Was he picturing my children, or was he wondering what it would be like to have sex with me? He popped the cherry into his mouth. I wondered if he was as nervous as I was.

‘I wish I could see more of them,’ I said. ‘Like you do. You’re so lucky.’

‘We’ve always been a close family,’ Evan said. ‘But it was thanks to Susan, bless her. She was always there for them, one hundred per cent. They adored her. She was such a wonderful person, so generous and loving. She had the sweetest nature, always putting others first.’

I stifled my disbelief. Was this the poisonous drunk who twerked with Douglas, whatever that was, whoever he was? The arch-­manipulator who was bitterly loathed by her own daughter—a daughter who didn’t shed a tear when she died?

‘I’m going to tackle those clams,’ said Evan, getting to his feet. ‘Would you like to watch, or would that ruin the mystery?’

I laughed. Good Lord, I actually liked this man.

So I stood in the kitchen in a haze of garlic smoke as he cooked the spaghetti alle vongole, stirring in the clams with a flourish. I almost heard them cry. Watching their shells opening I thought: poor little sods, victims of mass murder—but I kept quiet. It would hardly be tactful, would it? Though to a clam, of course, its own death would be as momentous as Susan’s.

‘Would you like to open that very decent bottle of wine you’ve brought?’ asked Evan.

I uncorked the bottle and, under his instructions, fetched a bowl of salad from the fridge and tossed it with some dressing. It was pleasantly companionable, almost marital; I hadn’t done this for so long. He’d laid the small table in the kitchen, which was preferable to the sterile formality of the dining room. He lit a candle and dimmed the lights.

The supper was delicious. As we ate he asked me about my husband but I steered the conversation in another direction. We talked about holidays in Italy (both for), cruises (him for, me against), opera (him for, me ignorant), bullfights (both against), Bruce Springsteen (both for).

We’d finished the bottle of wine. I felt agreeably tipsy. He said he was afraid there was no dessert but would I like some coffee? I shook my head. There was a silence.

He leaned across the table and looked me in the eye. ‘You don’t have a dog, do you?’

‘No,’ I replied, startled. ‘Why?’

‘No animal you need to get home for?’

‘Only a cat.’

He folded his napkin. ‘So there’s nothing to stop us spending the night together?’

He led me into the bedroom. We were both unsteady on our feet and collapsed onto the bed—oh Lord, the bed in which Susan had died. The cupboard door was open; I glimpsed a pack of adult nappies. Evan pushed the door shut with his foot.