‘Oh, you ended the relationship?’ says Bains, a sly smirk creeping across his face. ‘Well, that was very decent of you. Not many men would stand by their girlfriend after she attacked their mother.’

‘I didn’t attack her,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘She was … she …’

It’s no use. I can’t do it. I can’t tell Bains the truth.

‘You were angry at Jackie for interfering,’ he says, his eyes narrowing. ‘And you launched a disgusting attack on her, a defenceless, middle-aged woman, which resulted in an injury to her face.’

‘That is not true,’ I cry. ‘It wasn’t like that. Connor is lying. He’s twisting it.’

‘Did you or did you not hit Jackie Dawkins, causing a bleed to her face?’ says Bains, leaning forward so far that I can smell the stale coffee on his breath. ‘Tell me.’

I nod my head.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘You attacked your boyfriend’s mother because you didn’t like what she was saying. Did you also lose your rag when Geoffrey Rivers said something you didn’t like? Maybe he sussed you out like Ros Coverley did. Maybe he was about to report you and you got angry and –’

‘DS Bains, my client does not have to answer this line of questioning.’

The sound of Frank Solomon’s voice makes me start.

‘She is here voluntarily,’ he continues. ‘And regarding the case of Mrs Dawkins, I understand the assault was not reported to the police. I can’t see how an unreported and therefore alleged domestic matter can have anything to do with the Rivers case.’

‘Unreported, yes,’ replies Bains, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘But Miss Adams has just admitted to the incident, so not alleged.’

‘DS Bains, you have to charge my client with an offence or let her go,’ says Frank Solomon, his voice rising passionately as though he had spent the entire interview biding his time, waiting for his chance to silence this man.

I wait for Bains to reply, watch as he consults his notes. Beside me, Frank Solomon shuffles in his seat. Outside, a car door slams and the noise brings a memory hurtling back: his body hitting the ground with a thud, his blood on my hands.

‘Miss Adams, I will ask you once again,’ says Bains, placing the papers into a neat pile. ‘What happened that afternoon at Holly Maze House?’

I look up at him but it’s not Bains’s face I see, it’s Geoffrey’s. Purple, bloated, eyes wide open. Dead.