Neither of us had moved away, but I felt that something had changed. A mutual connection we both rejected, but which bound us. Or that was what Frejah seemed to want me to feel, a mutuality with her. Standing there in the heat and sunlight, I still felt the tendrils of commonsense denial, the impossibility of it all. This plotting, these moves against each other.

‘You said he murdered your husband. Are you certain of that?’

‘It was a few years ago. Hari, my husband, was a police officer too, working undercover on Salay Ewwel, the first. We were separated, but still married. It was impossible to live a normal married life because of the work he was doing. My work sometimes was in the way too, but we were still fond of each other. We’d had a lot of good years together. He was a lifetime professional officer, committed to what he was doing, and I respected that. He was infiltrating a gang of drug smugglers, based on Ewwel but trafficking drugs to Dearth. He had a front, a drinks joint he ran in Ewwel Town. I was out of contact with him and had no idea where he was, but Jeksid traced him. He went to Ewwel and killed Hari. I’m sure of that, but Jeksid covered his tracks. He had no apparent motive, left no clues, no witnesses, no evidence, nothing that could link him to the murder. He had a clear alibi. He was still a cop at the time, and he got away with it. A perfect crime.’

‘You said he was dishonourably discharged.’

‘The police couldn’t pin it on him – Jeksid was clever. He had done a brilliant job of covering it up. But I knew beyond doubt that no one else would have done it. Then some of the other commissioners started having their doubts. I said nothing to discourage them. About a year after Hari was killed they found a way to get rid of Enver. He was furious: he lost his vassal status, his pension, his good service record, everything. He blamed me – he knew I had worked out what he had done. I was the only one who could. He swore then he would get me. That’s why I pack a weapon, yes. But mostly I’ve stayed out of his way. When he moved to Tielet, the third, I eased up a little.’

A perfect murder? I remembered Spoder’s claim that the murder of Dever Antterland had taken place inside a locked room. Spoder had been right, in a way. Now this – the dream of every thriller writer, to think up a crime that was perfect, unsolvable, but at the same time possible, or at least made to seem realistic within the bounds of a novel.

But not so perfect if it led to Jeksid being given a dishonourable discharge?