Romy thought this was probably true. An insignificant teenager about chambers … Although she knew her husband had a razor-sharp memory, almost photographic in its recall. But why should he remember someone who wasn’t important to him? she asked herself.

Her husband reached for his wine and took a long gulp. Romy didn’t know what to say. But obviously she couldn’t leave it there.

‘Can you try to remember, Michael? It’s important you do.’

He frowned. ‘Why? Sounds like she had a bit of a thing for me … She almost admits she did. And now her life’s gone to the dogs and she’s looking for someone to blame.’ He shrugged.

Romy had retreated to her chair, but she was sitting on the edge of the cushion, leaning towards her husband. ‘So you don’t remember any incident where you gave a girl some wine in your office and she sat on the sofa …’ She paused. ‘She seems to know a lot of detail.’

‘Romy?’ Michael stared at her, a wounded look in his eye as his glass clunked down on the table. He seemed to be waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t know what to say. ‘You don’t honestly think I did this, do you?’ He jumped up, still clutching the letter, and began pacing back and forth across the window bay. ‘Of course she knows details. She was probably in and out of my office all week.’

Neither spoke for a moment. Then Romy said. ‘2002 was when you were doing the Charlie Brigham case, wasn’t it?’

Brigham was a music promoter accused of grooming an underage fan. It had been a long drawn-out case, because more victims had come forward pre-trial, with a lot of publicity attached. Michael lost and Brigham had gone to gaol. Romy had been working back to the date since she read the letter.

It was a summer she would not forget. She had fractured her right tibia falling off a bike and careering down a steep bank when they were staying with friends in the New Forest during the boys’ half-term. She was in plaster, couldn’t drive for the rest of the summer, and Michael was hopelessly unreliable in helping out with the boys, then aged twelve and nine. She remembered him being tense and bad-tempered for weeks, which she felt was more her prerogative.

‘It was the summer I broke my leg.’

Her husband nodded as he threw the letter onto the table, a frown of concentration on his face as he began pacing again. Then his expression cleared slightly, although the frown remained. ‘There was one girl around that time … Emily? Emma?’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m sure she was older … already at college.’

Romy sighed. ‘What was she like?’ she asked. ‘Did you do stuff with her?’

Michael rounded on her. ‘What do you mean by “ stuff ”, Romy? Are you accusing me of molesting her now?’