In other words, there is no way I can avoid answering them. What a fool I was to imagine Charlie Zailer would be more sensitive than any other police officer. After what happened to her, she probably resolved to fill the space her feelings used to occupy with sheet metal. I tried to do the same thing myself for a long time; I understand the logic behind it.

To my relief, she doesn’t ask again why I left Lincoln. Instead, she wants to know if I have a job. I lean forward. Steam from my tea wets my face. Somehow it’s comforting.

‘I work for my boyfriend,’ I tell her.

‘What’s his name?’ She watches me carefully.

‘You know his name.’

‘Aidan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Surname?’

‘Seed.’

‘And what does Aidan do?’

‘He’s got his own picture-framing business, Seed Art Services. ’

‘Oh, I’ve seen the sign. You’re by the river, aren’t you? Near that pub, what’s it called . . .?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long have you worked for Aidan?’

‘Since last August.’

‘Where did you work before that? When you first moved to Spilling?’

I tell myself this will be over soon. Even the worst things end eventually.

‘I didn’t, at first. Then I worked at the Spilling Gallery.’

‘As a picture-framer?’

‘No.’ The word comes out like a cry of pain. It feels like a punishment, this long, drawn-out, pointless interrogation. ‘I didn’t know how to frame pictures then. My boss did the framing. I was a sales assistant—a receptionist, but I also sold pictures to customers. Aidan trained me properly, when I went to work for him.’

‘So now you know how to frame pictures.’ Charlie Zailer sounds pleased with my achievement. ‘Did you work when you lived in Lincoln?’

‘I had my own business.’

She smiles encouragingly. ‘I’m not psychic.’

‘I had a garden design business. Green Haven Gardens,’ I say quickly, before she can ask me.

‘Quite a change, then—garden designer to picture-framer. Your boss at the Spilling Gallery, what was his name?’

‘Saul Hansard,’ I say weakly.

She puts down her notebook and pen. She watches me, the bony fingers of her right hand playing with the ring on her left. It’s a single diamond—a small one with gold claws around it, sticking up from the gold band it’s attached to. She’s engaged. I feel excluded from her private happiness, and know I have no right to. It’s a sign of how far back I’ve slipped since London.

The better you understand yourself, the easier it is to change, my books say.

‘So, you and Aidan Seed work together, framing pictures by the river. Ever been flooded?’ Sergeant Zailer asks brightly. ‘I know the pub has. Oh—the Star, that’s what it’s called. I’ve seen your sign—“Seed Art Services, Conservation Framing”—but I assumed you’d shut down. Whenever I look, there’s a sign in the window saying you’re closed.’

I stare at her. I can’t do this any more. I stand up, knocking my legs against the table, spilling tea. More from her mug than mine. ‘Aidan believes he killed a woman called Mary Trelease,’ I tell her again. ‘I know he didn’t.’