He takes his iPad, swipes the screen, then pushes it into the centre of the table for me, and Frank, to see.

‘For the benefit of the tape I am showing Miss Adams CCTV footage from inside the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency, Hampstead, taken at 1 p.m. on the 11th of August 2018.’

The footage is clearer than I imagined and I flinch as I watch a woman, clad in a pale-pink sundress, enter the office and stride over to the desk. She talks to the estate agent – a young man called Edward Carter-Vaughan – for around five minutes. The footage then shows him making a call, while the woman sits at the desk opposite him.

‘Do you remember now?’ asks Bains, zooming in to my face.

Of course I remember. I remember every little detail. The layout of the office: two desks on either side of the room, one for sales, one for lettings; the smell of lilies and fresh coffee. The ringing of phones and the cut-glass accent of the lettings agent as she answered each call: ‘Good afternoon, Price Burrows, how may I help you?’ And Edward finishing the call then looking up at me with a smile: ‘We’re in luck. Mr Rivers is free to show you the property at 1.30. Does that work for you?’

‘Miss Adams?’

I don’t reply, though it’s clear to anyone with a pair of eyes that the person on the screen is me.

‘Okay,’ says Bains, shaking his head and grabbing the iPad. ‘I’d like to show you another piece of CCTV footage, this time from the northern end of Hampstead High Street at 2.14 that afternoon.’

My stomach knots as Bains opens up a new screen then places the iPad back on to the table, pushing it towards me.

‘Miss Adams,’ he says, emphasizing my surname as though it’s a lie, ‘I believe this footage shows you running down Hampstead High Street after leaving Holly Maze House. You look to be in a state of extreme agitation.’

He leans across, pauses the film, then zooms in.

‘Can you see?’

I nod my head. Beside me, Frank Solomon shuffles uneasily in his seat.

‘For the benefit of the tape, Miss Adams, was that nod of the head an affirmation? Are you confirming that the person on the screen is you?’

I freeze. Why had I nodded my head?

We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before Bains takes the iPad and switches it off.

‘Miss Adams,’ he says, shuffling forward in his seat, ‘we have CCTV footage of you entering the offices of Price Burrows Estate Agency on the 11th of August 2018, where you booked an appointment to view Holly Maze House at 1.30 p.m., using the false name Iris Lawson, though you – helpfully for us – gave your sister’s address.’