‘That’s . . . that’s absurd,’ I mumble, whilst frantically searching for a way to prove her wrong. ‘She bought me the picture in my office, knowing that as a fellow New Yorker, it would remind me of home.’

Robson seems taken aback. ‘Mrs Talbot’s American?’

I laugh because I can’t not. There may be many anomalies in this case, but Vanessa’s origin cannot be called into question. ‘Didn’t you notice her accent?’

Robson narrows her eyes as if she’s having real trouble working me out. I don’t know what she’s finding so difficult.

‘She hasn’t got one,’ she says eventually.

I suddenly doubt myself, wondering if I’d imagined it. I certainly can’t recall Vanessa sounding American when she was in the stables, but then I was too busy trying to stay alive.

I remember the picture that’s hanging on my office wall; the shared stories from back home; her memories of Mom’s murder. Of course she’s American, otherwise . . .

My hands grip the sides of my head, my fingernails digging into my scalp in the hope it relieves the pressure that’s building.

‘Why don’t you describe the beach hut for me?’ asks Robson. ‘The one you visited yesterday with Mrs Talbot.’

I force myself to breathe, but my lungs don’t seem to be working properly. ‘It’s something of a shrine to their son,’ I say. ‘He died in a tragic accident and it’s full of pictures of him and the family in happier times.’

Robson nods. ‘I went there today,’ she says. ‘But I couldn’t have come across a more different scene.’

I look to Leon, wanting to fall into his arms and never wake up.

‘Shall I tell you what I found?’ she asks.

My throat dries up as she gives one of her colleagues a nod and he hands her a see-through plastic bag.

Leon bristles beside me; its contents are so easily identifiable.

‘Is this your underwear?’ asks Robson, tilting her head towards the black and pink lace bra and knicker set.

‘Yes, but—’

‘And this?’ she asks, taking another evidence bag. ‘Is this your blouse?’

Prettily decorated with red cherries and a black tie at the neck and wrists, it’s not a blouse you’d wear if you wanted to be incognito. But then I didn’t know I didn’t want to be recognized for being the last person to have a drink with a man who is now dead.

I can do nothing but nod, because anything else would be pointless and untrue.

A shrill ringtone resounds around the tent and Robson reaches into her jacket pocket to answer her phone.

‘OK,’ she says dourly, after listening for a few seconds. ‘You’re absolutely sure? There’s no room for error?’

I clasp my clammy hands together, wondering if whatever she’s being told is going to work in my favour or against me.