DI Fanshawe took a few sips before putting the mug down and taking a notebook from his pocket. ‘Before we begin,’ he said, tapping it with a well-chewed pen, ‘I think it’s best if we read you your rights. Keep it formal and correct, you understand.’

Molly’s jaw dropped. Shutting it with an audible snap, she forced an uncertain laugh. ‘There must be some mistake, what am I supposed to have done?’ In the television dramas she watched, this was where she was supposed to ask if she should get a solicitor. She wanted to laugh, but none of this was remotely funny.

Ignoring her question, Fanshawe said words she’d only ever expected to hear in TV programmes. ‘Do you understand your rights, as I have informed you?’

She looked at him. She’d done nothing wrong, yet fear shimmied down her spine. ‘Yes,’ she said, she understood her rights, but she’d no idea why they were being read. ‘Do I need to have a solicitor present?’

DI Fanshawe tilted his head. ‘That is certainly your prerogative, Mrs Chatwell. We are merely looking for information; reading you your rights allows us to use any information you may give us. If you prefer, you can come with us to the station and we can wait for your solicitor there.’

She shook her head. ‘No, that’s okay. I’m happy to cooperate. I have done nothing wrong.’

He gave a slight smile, as if of approval, and sat forward, hands dangling between his spread knees to look at her with cold grey eyes. ‘Do you know a man named Oliver or Ollie Vine?’

Her brow furrowed as she thought of all the men in the office. She was almost sure none of them was called Oliver. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said hesitantly. ‘There are always people coming and going in work though, one of the newer ones that I haven’t met might be–’

‘This isn’t someone in your office,’ Fanshawe interrupted her.

‘Socially,’ she said with more conviction, ‘I don’t know anyone called Oliver Vine.’ Her eyes flitted from one man to the other. Neither was giving anything away. What the hell was going on?

Fanshawe turned a page of his notebook, placed it on the coffee table and gave it a little nudge in her direction. ‘Is that your phone number?’

She picked it up. Was it? She’d no idea. ‘I’ll have to go and get my mobile,’ she said, ‘it’s not a number I’ve memorised.’ When he nodded, as if to give her permission, she lifted her chin in annoyance. ‘I want to know what this is all about,’ she said, crossing her arms.

But if that attitude was effective with junior members of her staff in Dawson Marketing, it wasn’t with the two policemen who sat unmoving opposite.

‘If you’d go and get your phone, Mrs Chatwell.’