He trails me as I return to the bedroom and pull a pale cream tweed jacket from the wardrobe. ‘You know the rules,’ he says. ‘Back before nightfall.’

‘The children aren’t babies any more.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Why? Are you worried I’m setting Peter a bad example?’ I say, glancing in the wardrobe mirror and straightening my shirt collar so that my silk lapels are even. ‘I think that ship has sailed, Tom.’

He moves behind me, snaking his arms around my waist. I turn into him. When he kisses me, his mouth is hungry, urgent. His tongue forces its way between my lips, and I can feel his erection against my thigh.

This is how it is between us.

This is how it’s always been.

I saw his disappointment yesterday when I told him I wasn’t the one who killed Felix Porter. I am his dance with the dark. He needs me to be who I am so that he can be who he is.

I know what he wants from me. Tom’s always been aroused by my shadowed side. It’s what kept him from Harper’s bed, what keeps him from the bed of any other woman but me. He tells me I’m a good person, but he doesn’t really believe it. It would break his heart to know the truth about me.

I killed my father, but I’m not the person Tom thinks I am. I break into homes, but instead of stealing, I leave flowers. I slice through flesh and dip my hands in blood, but I save lives: I don’t take them.

So this is my gift to him today: a consolation prize for the truth about Felix. He doesn’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but he imagines. His fantasies are what makes him hard. He thinks I don’t tell him because I’m afraid he would be shocked. And he would: but not the way he thinks.

Because I love him I’ve kept my secret for nearly twenty-five years: not for my sake, but for his.

It’s Saturday: once I get out of Fulham, the traffic west to Abingdon is surprisingly light. It’s a journey I’ve made many times before; I know where the speed traps are, which traffic cameras work and which are dummies. I stop for petrol at the garage I always use, eschewing the bitter reheated coffee on offer when I go inside to pay, and instead crossing the forecourt to the greasy spoon on the corner of the block. The owner, Harry, greets me with a smile when I hand him my travel mug, and returns it filled with the best coffee I’ve had outside Brazil, along with a piece of homemade shortbread – still warm – on the house.

‘Haven’t seen you in a few weeks,’ he comments as I pay. ‘Everything all right?’