‘We’ll be getting to that in a moment,’ she says. ‘Sit down, Ruth. I asked you a question: Seed Art Services is still up and running, is it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I snap, feeling humiliated. ‘Aidan and I work there, six days a week, sometimes seven. The sign in the window says “Closed except for appointments and deliveries”. We’re too busy to have people dropping in with little odds and ends. If someone only wants one picture framed and they spend half an hour choosing the frame and the mount, we make a loss on that job.’

Charlie Zailer nods. ‘So, who are your customers, then?’

‘Why? For God’s sake, why does any of this matter? Local artists, museums and galleries, some corporate customers . . .’

‘And how long has Aidan been in business? His workshop’s been there for as long as—’

‘Six years,’ I cut her off. ‘Do you want to know where we both went to school? Our mothers’ maiden names?’

‘No. I’d like to know where Aidan lives, though. With you?’

‘As good as.’

‘Since when?’

‘Two, two and a half months.’ Since our night in London. ‘He’s also got his own flat, attached to the framing workshop. It’s more of a storeroom than a flat, really. It’s got a tiny kitchen in one corner that barely works. You can’t have the gas rings and the oven on at the same time.’ I stop, aware that I’ve told her more than I needed to.

‘Most single men could live in a grimy bucket and not notice. ’ Sergeant Zailer laughs. ‘So does he own or rent his . . . premises?’

‘He rents.’ I brush my hair away from my eyes. ‘Before you ask, yes, he also pays his rent on time.’

She folds her arms, smiles. ‘All right, Ruth. Thanks for your patience. Now, tell me about Aidan and Mary Trelease.’

Unsure whether I’ve passed or failed whatever bizarre test she has just inflicted upon me, I try to compose myself and say clearly, ‘He didn’t kill her.’

‘Let me clarify this point one more time: to your knowledge, nobody—neither Aidan nor anyone else—has hurt or killed Mary Trelease. Correct?’

I nod.

‘She’s unharmed?’

‘Yes. You can check . . .’

‘I will.’

‘. . . you’ll see I’m right.’

‘Then why does Aidan think he killed her?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. He won’t tell me.’

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

‘No. It’s ruining both our lives.’

She slaps the palm of her left hand flat on the table. ‘I need a bit of context here. Who is this Mary Trelease? What does she do? Where does she live? How old is she? How do you and Aidan know her?’

‘She lives in Spilling. She’s an artist. A painter. She . . . I don’t know how old she is. I think maybe about my age. Thirty-eight, forty. Maybe older.’ None of the answers I know are the answers we need. Charlie Zailer hasn’t realised this yet, but she will. I’m terrified that, as soon as she does, she’ll give up on me.