[Sighs] ‘I’m her husband. Of course I was concerned. But, as I said, I realized it was part of the “process” of creating her work, and I hoped that a few days spent with me keeping an eye on her would put her back on the right track. And don’t forget that Grace was staying with her. She said she was a doctor. At the back of my mind it was always there that if things got bad, Grace would say something, or do something, or call me.’

‘I see. And you mentioned earlier that Abigail hadn’t been looking after the house, either? Was that unusual?’

‘Yes, it was unusual. She’s no domestic goddess but things are usually pretty nice at home. You know: clean. Tidy. I was surprised to see how bad things had got. But, as I said, she was painting.’

‘I see. And anything else?’

‘Well. There was what happened to the cat.’

Thirty-Nine

We went to Mr Ho’s.

‘Unimaginative, I know,’ Rohan said somewhat apologetically after he booked, ‘but the food’s good, and we can walk, so I can have a drink too.’

It was still blustery as we walked down towards the High Street, my hand small and cold inside the warmth of Rohan’s big paw. He gave my hand a squeeze as our feet hit the pavement in rhythm: two of my small steps to each one of his. The last of the trick-or-treaters were out now – teenagers at this time. They moved in little gangs – nylon capes swirling around short skirts, black tights and platform heels; splashes of garish make-up – fake teeth, black eyes and dark red scars – as they zig-zagged to the decorated houses. I’d had a few vodkas at home and I had to hold consciously onto the thought that they were just costumes; that ghouls and vampires weren’t circling us, hungry for blood. The streetlights bathed everything in yellow light and the wind buffeted our faces, whipping my hair into Medusa snakes.

‘You should see the decorations in New York,’ Rohan said. ‘Makes this look laughable. God, for days now, the Upper East Side’s been absolutely covered with some really ghastly stuff. Ghouls and headless monsters and things that cackle and flash when you walk past. The Americans have got it down to a fine art.’

‘Sounds awful,’ I said.

Rohan inhaled deeply. ‘But nothing beats the smell of a British autumn, does it, babe? Bonfires, fireworks and hot takeaway chips. Always takes me back to bonfire night as a kid. Can you smell it, too, or is it just because I’ve been away?’