I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. ‘Th-that’s right.’

Harris turns the phone towards me and clicks on an app too quickly for me to see what it is. But suddenly, my face is on the screen, screwed up and pinched as I stare out of it.

I’m so shocked that I jump back, as if scared of my own reflection. My brain spurts and splutters as it hotwires itself to make sense of what it’s seeing. I hope that by the time my eye sends the pixels to the part that puts them all together, the picture will have changed. But as I look at the phone, waiting, it’s still me, looking like a deranged woman, staring out of it.

‘Jacob? Are you there? I know you’re in there,’ comes a voice that sounds a lot like my own. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened the other night, but surely we’ve got to be a bit grown-up about this? Why don’t you just open the door so we can talk?’

I don’t want to look at the screen, but I have to, to know it’s me. My features are contorted, not helped by the curvature of the lens. ‘Is she in there with you?’ I hiss. ‘You’re going to need to come out, because I’m not leaving until I see you.’

Detective Harris taps a button and the torment stops, but I know it’s only going to be a matter of seconds before it starts again. What the hell have I done?

‘So, this footage is from a doorbell camera at the property that Mr Talbot rents from you,’ says Robson.

‘I didn’t know he’d installed a camera,’ I say, making myself sound even more guilty. I shove my hands into my pockets and look down at the floor. It’s taking all of my concentration not to collapse in a heap.

‘This was the night before last,’ Robson goes on, ignoring the thumping of my heart that she must surely be able to hear. ‘Yet, you said—’

‘I did go around there,’ I blurt out, unable to stop my conscience from telling the truth. But how can I possibly lie about this? ‘I was worried about him when he didn’t turn up for our appointment, so I went round there to check he was OK.’

‘This was because he said his wife had threatened him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet from this footage, it seems that you were the one threatening him,’ says Robson.

I run a shaky hand through my hair and pace up and down, unable to believe how my good deed has turned into me being accused of . . . of what?

‘Why did you tell us you hadn’t been round there?’

‘B-because . . .’ I stutter. ‘I hadn’t told my husband that Jacob, I mean Michael, was living in the flat.’

‘Why not?’ asks Robson, her interest piqued.