There was no one at the desk so Jude rang the bell and waited. The woman gazed at her fixedly. A burly man appeared. Even though the room was chilly, he had beads of sweat on his forehead and damp patches under his armpits.

She told him she was expected and he found her name on the computer system and then pointed his thick finger at the chairs.

“Take a seat,” he said.

Jude didn’t want to take a seat. She wandered across to the noticeboard but the only notice on it was one about where to park in the area.

She heard her name being called and turned round. Leila Fox was there. Even in a police station, she still didn’t look much like a detective to Jude. She was wearing a green corduroy shirt and her unruly hair was held back by a colorful headband. She smelled musky, something with patchouli, thought Jude. Her handshake was vigorous.

Through the door at the back, down a corridor that could have been a hospital corridor, into a room with unpleasantly harsh lighting and chairs ranged round a rectangular table. There were filing cabinets under the window, and a picture of a vase of flowers on the wall. It was hanging askew and Jude automatically straightened it.

The young male detective, Brendan Patterson, entered the room, carrying three paper cups that he set on the table. He produced packs of sugar and milk from his jacket pocket, scattering them in front of her.

“I don’t know how you like it.”

“This won’t take long, will it?” asked Jude.

“We just want to clear up a few things,” said Leila.

It was more than a few things, and it was recorded on a large machine that looked as if it belonged to a previous age and made Jude jittery: her fumbled words were becoming evidence, stored.

Leila asked all the questions. Jude had to go through the whole story again, tripping over words, suddenly worrying that she was contradicting what she had said before.

“You really hadn’t seen Liam Birch for eleven years?”

“No.”

“And you say there was no sexual involvement?”

“No. I mean, yes, I do say that there was no sexual involvement.”

“So you just did what he asked for old times’ sake.”

“Yes.”

Every true thing she said sounded like a lie. Her voice was scratchy. She took a sip of the coffee. It tasted bitter.

“You do see the problem,” asked Leila Fox.

“No, I don’t.”

The detective readjusted her headband, gathering up her unraveling hair.

“With your . . .” She paused, apparently searching for the right word.

“He’s not my anything.”

“With him being murdered in London and you up in Norfolk with his wallet and his phone and his car.”

“I’m as baffled as you are.”