She went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and banish some of the images that the court documents had thrown into her imagination. There were three cubicles, of which one was taken. Someone was being violently ill. Initially she was tempted to leave whoever it was to her privacy, but the sheer anguish of the retching made her a little worried. ‘Are you all right in there?’ Leticia asked. She had to repeat the question once more. There was a short gap in the wheezing and retching, and a ragged voice gasped: ‘I’ll be fine, just leave me alone.’

‘I’ll get you a glass of water, that always helps.’

‘I’ve got one in here with me. Just go.’ The woman was out of breath, but Leticia now recognised the voice, for all of its edge.

It was Verity.

She left her boss to her anguish, but on her return to her desk sent a private screen-top message to Tina.

Just seen Verity throwing up in the ladies’.

Tina looked across the top of the computer screen at her and raised one eyebrow. She began typing.

She has an eating disorder. Can’t keep stuff down. Feel sorry for her.

Leticia typed another message. Unusually charitable for you.

Tragic background, emotional baggage and a nasty divorce. I’ll tell you all about it one day, but she doesn’t like people knowing.

Leticia had had no idea that her workaholic boss was struggling with personal issues. In the eighteen months she had been working there she had gathered that Verity was divorced and childless, ‘married to the job’ as Adrian put it. From the acid comments she let slip about some of their male clients, Leticia assumed that her boss had not been treated well by men. None of that was surprising. The world is full of damaged people. Verity was one of those who seemed to keep aloof, which often indicated buried problems. She didn’t socialise with the team. Come to think of it, Leticia had never even seen her eat.

A few minutes later Verity re-emerged into the office, looking even paler than usual. Leticia caught her eye, and the slightest inflection of her eyebrow communicated a very clear message: don’t you dare say anything.

Leticia gave a small smile. It was meant to be reassurance, but it was freighted with guilt. She felt anyone could read it: Too late, Verity. Sorry.

Anton sat in Staines police station with his arms crossed opposite PCs Cottesloe and Wickens. To the chef they looked like the classic white British bullet-headed bobbies. Cottesloe looked at the statement in front of him.

‘So Mr St Jeanne, your version of events is that you and your girlfriend were sitting in your car on the bridge, listening to music, between roughly half past midnight and quarter to two on the night in question.’

‘That’s right.’