James Conway’s flat was so squalid I didn’t want to touch a single surface. I stood in front of his antiquated gas fire, keeping my Barbour away from the mantelpiece, which was smeared with the dirt of decades. An old-fashioned carriage clock sat on it, along with framed black and white photos of a boot-faced elderly couple and a small boy with sticking-out ears. I knew that he was living in his mother’s old place. The décor hadn’t been changed since what looked like the mid-seventies.

Conway sat on the worn velvet sofa, wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt stained yellow under the arms. I couldn’t believe this man was allowed to assist with surgery. ‘I want my money first. You’ve got it?’

‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand. Why would Pat – why would my husband borrow money from you?’ I looked around me, wrinkling my nose. Did he even have money to lend?

‘I had some from my mother’s will, and I wasn’t doing anything with it just then. He needed it.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a good friend.’ Or more likely, Patrick had some kind of hold over him. Again, that word in my mind. Blackmail. Conway seemed the type to have several misdemeanours in his past. Perhaps he was chancing his arm, trying to get back what he’d paid out.

‘But . . . what did he need it for?’ I was wracking my brains. I knew that the money was gone. I knew that the house had been mortgaged, when I’d thought it was paid for outright. I knew that he hadn’t been a doctor after all, just worked in the admin department. But despite that series of shocks, I still didn’t know why he would have needed a large sum of money from someone so obviously sleazy.

Conway laughed. He had a horrible laugh, sneery and hoarse, like he’d smoked a million cigarettes. ‘That fella, he burns through cash like water. He’s never had any, you know. Any guff he gave you about being middle-class, that was bollocks. Why do you think he married you? You don’t think he knew you had money? You really have no idea, do you, love?’

I bristled. The idea that Patrick had only married me for my money, that any love between us had been faked, was unendurable. He hadn’t even known who I was before we met, that I was wealthy – he’d just seen my picture on the Tube and felt compelled to find me.

Hadn’t he?

In that moment, I really could have killed Conway. I wouldn’t let him take that from me too. ‘But why did he need the money now? Did . . .’ I faltered, thinking of why he might have wanted quick access to cash.