My skin is tingling when I step out of the shower five minutes later, refreshed and energised. Tom knocks on the bathroom door as I’m towelling myself dry. ‘Millie?’ he calls. ‘The police are here to see you.’

Damn. I forgot to email them my statement about Harper’s accident.

I wrap my wet hair in a second towel and knot it on top of my head. ‘Tell them I’ll be down in a minute—’

He cuts me off. ‘Millie,’ he says, and his voice is as serious as I’ve ever heard it, ‘I think you’d better come now.’

chapter 43

tom

We wait in our little-used formal drawing room in silence for Millie to get dressed and come downstairs. Both detectives have refused my offer of tea or coffee, although one of them, DS Mehdi, requested a glass of water which he hasn’t touched.

‘She won’t be long,’ I say, for the third or fourth time.

‘We’re not in any rush,’ the younger – senior – detective says. DCI Hollander. He’s got one of those everyman faces that always looks somehow familiar even when you’ve never met them before. Dirty-blond hair, short but not too short, nondescript eyes. Nice suit, though.

‘Don’t mind if I look around, do you?’ DS Mehdi asks.

‘Be my guest.’

He wanders over to the bookcase beside the fireplace, turning his head sideways so that he can read the spines. I’m not sure what clues he expects to find in the complete works of Arthur C. Clarke and George R. R. Martin. My literary choices, obviously: Millie’s not much of a reader.

‘Can I ask why you want to talk to my wife?’ I say.

‘It’s just routine,’ DCI Hollander says.

I’ve watched Line of Duty and Broadchurch. I know what just routine means.

‘We’re talking to everyone who may be connected to Felix Porter’s disappearance,’ DS Mehdi adds, turning from the bookcase.

‘My wife’s not connected to his disappearance,’ I say.

He smiles wolfishly. ‘I’m sure.’

If this interview is routine I’m a Dutchman. They must know about Millie’s run-ins with Felix: she nearly broke the man’s bloody finger in front of at least a dozen witnesses. If she hadn’t just saved his son’s life Felix would probably have pressed charges, and he’d have been well within his rights.

I watch suspiciously as DS Mehdi strolls over to the low cabinet beneath the flatscreen TV, and picks up a stack of DVDs. ‘Old-school,’ he observes, thumbing through them. ‘DVDs, I mean.’

‘You can’t always stream the classics,’ I say.

‘Soldier Soldier. Nice. Robson Green was great in that. Wife and I were watching him the other day in Grantchester—’

‘Look, should I call a lawyer?’ I ask suddenly.

‘Why?’ DS Mehdi asks nicely, putting down the DVDs. ‘Do you think your wife needs one?’