You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

My faith in jury trials is limited. I’m well aware if push came to shove, I wouldn’t come across well: a trial has less to do with evidence than it does with emotion. Unlike Stacey or Harper, I’m not relatable. It’s never worried me before: people don’t need to like their surgeons. But they need to like defendants.

‘Are you going to prison, Mummy?’ Peter asks.

Tom jolts visibly at his sudden appearance in the kitchen. Our son could creep into our bedroom and murder us in our sleep and we’d never even wake.

‘Not yet,’ I say dryly.

‘The police want to search my room,’ Peter says. ‘I don’t want them to take my things.’

‘No one’s taking your things,’ Tom says impatiently.

There’s a shout from upstairs. A few minutes later, DS Mehdi comes back into the kitchen holding my running hoodie.

‘Blood on the cuff,’ he says grimly to DCI Hollander.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, how many more times?’ Tom says. ‘My wife’s told you she was with Felix when he had a nosebleed. Talk to Stacey Porter. She’ll tell you.’

‘We have. Mrs Porter has no recollection of it,’ DS Mehdi says.

The floor falls away beneath my feet.

‘What do you mean?’ Tom demands.

‘We asked Mrs Porter to confirm your wife’s version of events,’ DS Mehdi says smoothly. ‘She says there was no such occurrence as Mrs Downton described. In fact, she said as far as she’s aware her husband has never had a nosebleed.’

Tom looks at me sharply.

‘That can’t be right,’ I say stupidly. ‘She must remember. It was the same day she told me she and Felix were pulling out of the house sale. He had a bad nosebleed – she said he often had them when he was stressed.’

‘There’s something else,’ DS Mehdi says, handing an object to the other detective. ‘We found this in one of the cupboards upstairs.’

DCI Hollander examines it and then shows it to me. ‘Do you recognise this phone, Mrs Downton?’

It doesn’t belong to either of the children: they have very distinct phone cases. This one is plain black and glossy. ‘No,’ I say. ‘But one of the kids’ friends could have left it behind. They’re in and out of the house all the time.’

He flips it around, so that I can see the back. In the centre is a dull gold logo with which we’ve all become familiar in the last couple of weeks: Copper Beech Financial.

Felix’s phone.

chapter 47

tom