“I’m handing my evidence over to the police,” I tell Stuart. “It’s irresponsible not to. What if they attack me or hurt our baby?”

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I don’t want you to have to deal with the stress of it.”

“Okay. But if you don’t do it ASAP, or if they don’t take it seriously, I’m going to deal with it. Enough is enough.”

“I’ll phone them now,” he says.

He explains the situation with more urgency than I thought he would, to be fair. He takes out a pen and jots down notes.

Social media—contact individual companies

Phone provider

Notes, calendar, dates, times

Update

Call if escalates

He disconnects after writing down a number.

“I’ve done most of that,” I point to his list.

“Yes, and we’ve got to continue to keep a record,” he says.

“No one has said anything on social media or phoned. Everything is mainly through the letterbox, which points to someone local. In all likelihood, someone we know well.”

“I’ve got a crime reference number,” he says.

“Well, that solves everything,” I say. “Forget it, I’ll visit a police station and take in the evidence myself.”

A horrible thought crosses my mind. “Do you really not know who is doing this?”

“Marie,” he says in a tone of voice that I’ve grown to dread. “Everything’s fine. I won’t let anything happen to you or the children. Of course I don’t know who it is! What are you accusing me of?”

“I don’t like being told that everything is fine when it is so far from fine.”

I comfort myself by dreaming of all the wine I’m going to knock back after the baby’s born.

My phone rings. Deborah’s number shows up.

“I’m going out,” I say, resisting the urge to slam the door behind me, and take her call.

As I walk toward the café where she’s agreed to meet me, it is the greatest feeling to have escaped my own life, however briefly.

I can breathe again.

Thirty

“Thank you for agreeing to see me. I appreciate that it’s been really tough. I’d be the same, probably, if the roles were reversed.”

Actually, I’d be nicer, I hope, but I really want to build bridges. We sit in a local café in the window. I notice that the sugar pot in the center of the table needs filling while we wait for our order. We both sit in silence as a waiter puts down our cups and saucers, a teapot and a jug of milk, decorated in pale pink roses.

As I pour, keeping my eyes focused on the steaming tea (I can’t do much eye contact with Deborah, it’s too disconcerting), I get on with it.

“Camilla suggested I talk to you.”

She takes a sip, her face guarded.

“I know,” I say, taking her hand. “As in know, know. About Nina. About the accident. But it’s fine, I’m not going to do anything about it. I will continue to protect Nina, and of course the children, but I must know exactly what happened. Charlie was my first love, my boyfriend. I need the truth about how he died.”