‘I think we both know Felix wasn’t the abuser here, Stacey.’

‘Do we, though?’ she asks. ‘It’s all a question of perspective, isn’t it? That video, for instance. It looks bad for me on first viewing, but once you see the photos of my bruises and black eye, well. That changes things.’

The grey shadow of a fox darts across the road, and I brake to avoid it. ‘I told you those photos would come in useful.’

‘And you were right, Millie. I’m the first to admit it. As soon as Justine – that’s my agent, the bloodsucking leech – as soon as she made the photos available to the press, everything changed. Hashtag believe the women: you’ve got to love it. I’ve already had three grovelling voicemails from my producer, but I think I’m going to make him sweat a bit more before I return them.’

It doesn’t matter what I do: Stacey will come up smelling of roses. The police are never going to believe me over her. I’m not likeable. I’m not relatable.

‘So why are you here, Stacey?’ I ask. ‘If everything’s worked out so beautifully for you? What do you need from me?’

‘I didn’t kill my husband, Millie.’

‘Nor did I,’ I say tersely. ‘Though you’ve done a very good job at making it look as if I did.’

‘No one’s ever going to convict you,’ Stacey says with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘It’s all circumstantial. Smoke and mirrors. It’ll blow over. You’ll be fine.’

‘So what was the point? Why drag me into it at all?’

She doesn’t reply. When I glance in the rearview mirror, she’s staring out into the darkness. I could stop the car and refuse to play this game any longer. Maybe she has a weapon, maybe she doesn’t: I find it hard to believe she’s going to do me any harm. The last thing she needs is another corpse on her hands.

She turns her head. ‘Why are you such good friends with Harper?’ she asks abruptly.

I meet her eyes in the mirror. ‘We’re not friends.’

‘She’s living in your house,’ Stacey says.

‘Because you drove a bloody car into hers and tried to kill her,’ I say.

‘You only have her word for that.’

She’s right, of course.

‘She says she saw you at the wheel,’ I say.

‘Did she tell you your son was with me when I did it?’

It takes a considerable effort of will to keep the car on the road. ‘You’re lying,’ I say.

‘You know I’m not.’

My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. ‘Stay away from him,’ I snap.

‘What’s that worth to you?’

‘He’s my son.’