‘It’s just a bone of contention between us. He thinks I do too much for my clients, get more involved than I should. But the flat was sitting there empty and Jacob – Michael – needed somewhere to go. It was a matter of urgency, so I told him to go there. I just haven’t got round to telling Leon yet.’

‘Would you mind coming down to the station with us?’ says Harris, putting the phone into his back pocket. I almost expect him to bring out a pair of handcuffs in its place.

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No, but we do need to take your fingerprints and a statement from you, and it would be easier if this were done at the station.’

‘I need to leave a note for my husband,’ I say.

Robson nods and I walk into the kitchen on legs that don’t feel like my own.

Out of sight, I pick up the chalk pen and look at the chalkboard on the wall, where we normally write the shopping list, wondering how I’m supposed to leave a message of such magnitude next to eggs, bananas and teabags.

I imagine Leon’s shock and confusion as he struggles to understand how the wife who’d just told him she loves him is now being questioned about the disappearance of a man it looks like she was stalking. And he thought putting Anna up for a couple of nights was a problem.

Shit, Anna! She could be back any minute and I’m not going to be here. I finger the chalk pen in my hand, trying to suppress the tears and panic that are welling up inside me.

Just popped out, I write. Should be home in time for dinner, but there’s mince in the fridge if I’m not.

‘Ready?’ asks Robson, eyeing me up and down suspiciously, as if I might be concealing something from the cutlery drawer.

I nod, and as I follow them out, I surreptitiously pop a key under the doormat in the porch, in the hope that Anna will look there when she gets no answer.

16

The police station in Canterbury is a twenty-minute journey in a mercifully unmarked car. It’s so nondescript that I’m not surprised I haven’t noticed it before. It’s like the ones you see on BBC cop dramas; a three-storey, Sixties-built building that looks like a block of flats rather than a place of authority.

I’m shown to a windowless room and asked if I want a hot drink. I decline, but they still leave me on my own for five minutes. I wonder which of the walls is a secret two-way mirror.

‘So as I explained, this is just a formality at this stage,’ says Robson, coming back in. ‘But we’ll be recording you whilst we take your statement.’

I nod, wishing I knew my rights.