I look between the two of them, getting the distinct impression that they know something I don’t.

‘So you’re not in any kind of personal relationship with him then,’ asks the woman, who I think is Robson, tilting her head to the side.

‘Why . . .’ I start, my tongue feeling like cotton wool. ‘Why would you think that?’ I wonder if I’ve misunderstood what she’s trying to imply.

‘Because we’ve been following some leads and your name has come up on more than one occasion.’

A heat creeps up from my toes, encompassing my whole body, inch by inch, until it reaches my ears.

‘I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I manage. ‘You must have the wrong person; I don’t know a Michael Talbot.’

Robson gives an almost imperceptible nod to her colleague, who reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a photo.

As I study the man, a burning hot liquid sets my chest alight. It’s travelling with such ferocity that I throw a hand over my mouth to stop it ending up on the detectives’ shiny shoes.

‘So, you do know him?’ says the man, almost smugly.

I don’t look up, unable to tear myself away from the man in the photo. His laughing eyes crease his crow’s feet and his gentle smile sends daggers through my heart.

‘Th . . .’ I go to speak, but can’t form the words.

‘Take your time, Mrs Chandler.’

‘Th-that isn’t Michael Talbot,’ I stutter.

They look at each other with raised eyebrows.

‘So, who is it then?’

My trembling hands can’t keep the picture still. I wait for the face on it to change; to one I’ve never seen before. But the longer I wait, the sharper the image becomes, imprinting itself on my brain.

‘Th-that’s Jacob Mackenzie.’

If she wasn’t so intuitive, so curious, then perhaps I could have told her my real name. But she’d only poke around and find out things she didn’t want to know.

I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

I have to be patient, stick to the plan, because if she finds out who I really am, there’ll be no coming back from it.

PART TWO

11

‘So how do you know the man you know as Jacob Mackenzie?’ asks Detective Inspector Robson.

I can’t think straight and wonder if I shouldn’t go and wake Leon up to translate my muddled thoughts into coherent words. But then again, perhaps it’s best that he stays where he is. What would he make of what is being implied?

‘H-he’s a client,’ I say. ‘I’m a psychotherapist.’

‘And why do you think his name is Jacob Mackenzie?’ asks Robson.

I look at her blankly. ‘Because that’s what he said his name was,’ I say, wondering what other reason there could be.