There’s the tiniest intake of breath, but an onlooker would miss it. Tears teeter in my eyes as I wonder how far I’m going to have to push him to elicit a reaction.

‘And the police seem to think that I’ve got something to do with it.’

‘You’ve spoken to the police?’

‘Yes, and they . . .’ I start, unable to look at him. ‘They seem to think that we’ve been having an affair.’

He takes a deep breath, puts his hands on his hips, and fixes me with a glare so intense that it makes my skin prickle.

‘And have you?’ he asks, his voice icy.

‘Of course not!’

The loaded silence permeates the air, its weight sitting heavily on my chest, as I wonder who’s going to be brave enough to speak next.

‘So why is he living in our flat then?’ he rasps, barely audible.

‘How did you know?’ I ask, whilst wanting to close my ears off to the answer.

He sighs. ‘I went round there a few days ago. Imagine my surprise when I let myself in to find someone else’s belongings filling the place.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I gasp. ‘I wanted to tell you, I should have told you, but I just couldn’t find the right time.’

‘So, what’s been going on?’ he asks, his eyes boring into mine.

‘Nothing,’ I cry. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

He walks away from me with his hands on his head.

‘Have you . . . have you done something?’ I ask, feeling braver now that he has his back to me.

He spins around. ‘Like what?’ he asks, his tone accusatory.

‘Leon, we need to be honest with each other,’ I say, going towards him. ‘If we don’t figure this out, work through this together, then we’re going to be in a whole heap of trouble.’

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘I saw you,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘At the Royal Garden hotel.’

His eyes widen and he starts pacing the living room floor.

‘What have you done?’ I plead. ‘You need to tell me.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You went to the flat. You saw us at the hotel. His credit card was found on site here.’ My voice is getting hoarser with every accusation. I imagine it’s the stone-cold fear setting in.

‘Credit card?’ he exclaims. ‘What credit card?’

‘The one that guy announced over the microphone.’

Leon rummages in his pocket with a confused expression on his face. ‘This is . . . Michael Talbot’s credit card,’ he says, looking at the thin piece of plastic in his hands.

I step away, knowing that being this close to a crucial piece of evidence will only incriminate me even more than I already am.

‘That’s his real name,’ I cry. ‘Apparently his real name is Michael Talbot.’

‘So how the hell . . .?’ He shakes his head. ‘I mean, what is his credit card doing here, at Tattenhall?’