A bag containing items believed to be the property of missing thirty-four-year-old banker Nick Ritchie has been discovered concealed close to the banks of the River Dart in Devon by police sniffer dogs at around 8 a.m. today. A spokesman said that investigations are ongoing and confirmed that while they are keeping an open mind, it is increasingly likely that the inquest will return a verdict of suicide. As a teenager Mr Ritchie was on holiday in the area when a thirteen-year-old girl drowned. The girl was a friend of the family. Sources close to Mr Ritchie have said that he subsequently suffered depression. Mr Ritchie was reported missing from his two-million-pound home by his girlfriend Grace Trelawney on Sunday, 15th April, after leaving his house the previous evening to go for a walk. Anyone with information should get in touch with Greater London Police on the following number.

A photograph comes up on the screen. It’s me and Nick at a charity ball, taken at least two years ago. He’s in a dinner jacket and I’m in a slinky blue dress. I remember that night; we had a good time. Nick drank too much and bid for a weekend at an expensive country house hotel. I’m glad they chose that one, rather than his work portrait, it’s truer to how he really is, but I guess they liked it because of the human interest. A happy young man with a pretty woman on his arm.

I switch off the television, and five minutes later the telephone starts to ring. That’s how long it takes to track someone these days. Even though Marsh forewarned me about the statement and its probable result, I answer that first call.

‘Miss Trelawney. James Pickett from the Mirror. How much did you know about your boyfriend? Did he murder that little girl? Is that why he killed himself? Because he couldn’t bear the guilt any more?’

I put the phone down and don’t answer it again. Within the hour, there are several journalists loitering outside my house, taking pictures. They talk to each other while they fiddle with their cameras. They don’t ring the doorbell, but I guess that’s because they know at this stage there’s no point, but their presence there makes me feel breathless. A feeling of dread descends.

I go upstairs and find an old jumper of Nick’s. I press it to my nose and sigh with relief as I breathe in his scent. I take it to bed with me and stare into space, not moving, unable to do anything. I can’t accept this. If they had found his body, then of course, but they haven’t. As far as I am concerned, Nick is not dead.

Cameras flash with a staccato barrage of clicks, blinding and confusing me as I open the door and find Douglas on my front step. Everyone shouts at once.