But here’s her face on my screen: more than one photo. And when I typed her name into Google images, I must have done it because I thought it might be her: Isobel Sturridge. I knew she’d been interviewed by the police, along with Liam, so I typed her name into the search box.

The first pictures to come up were three of Faith Kendell. My stomach started to hurt when I saw her – a sharp jabbing pain at first that faded and spread until it felt more like a dull ache radiating through me.

I clicked on them one by one: ‘Isobel Sturridge of Rudolphy’s receives the Independent Bookshop of the Year Award’, ‘Author Naomi Alderman with Isobel Sturridge from Rudolphy’s bookshop’, ‘Isobel Sturridge asks: Do Bookshops Have a Future?’

It’s her. Isobel Sturridge is Faith Kendell.

Does that mean she killed my grandmother? Could it mean something else: a possibility I don’t want to put into words?

Whether I want them or not, the words are there: is Liam a killer? What if Isobel gives out the books and then Liam does the killings?

I push sofa cushions out of the way in search of my phone. I deleted Liam from my contacts, but I still know his number by heart.

I don’t want to ring him. I want to ring Charlie. I want us to be still driving around, still working together …

Will you listen to how pathetic you sound? She spends her days attending suicide and domestic violence yawn-fests, and you’re a comedian. You’re not fucking Cagney and Lacey.

If I can get something useful out of Liam, I’ll have a reason to ring her.

‘Liam Sturridge.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me your sister was in Canterbury that night?’ I wouldn’t have been able to ring him if I’d allowed myself to think about what I’d say, or how. This was the only way it could happen: a current of need-to-talk-to-him coursing through me.

‘Excuse me? Who is this?’

‘Who d’you think it is, Liam?’

‘Kim?’

‘Oh, well done.’

‘I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all. How are you?’

‘Caught up in a murder investigation, in a possible-next-victim kind of way. You?’

‘I’m fine.’

How did I ever imagine a relationship of any sort with this man might be possible? I wait a few seconds, then say, ‘Well, okay, if you have no follow-up questions, I’ll press on with mine.’

‘Okay.’

How do most people resist the urge to flatten you with a meat hammer?

‘Isobel, your sister, was in Canterbury the night I gigged there. You were there too. We stayed in a hotel together, remember?’

‘Yes.’