She stood, threw him a baleful glance and left the room. Upstairs, she stood for a moment at the door of the spare bedroom. Jack would know what to do, she’d call him, he’d get rid of them. But there was something in the detective inspector’s eyes that made her hesitate. Maybe she’d better wait and see what on earth was going on.

She grabbed her phone from the bed table, unplugging the charging lead. Looking down at her robe, she swore softly. The soft fabric made her look feminine and weak. Quickly, she took it off, pulled on underwear and a white shirt and jeans from her wardrobe. Better.

She didn’t bother with shoes and ran lightly down the stairs.

The two men hadn’t moved. They sat with the mugs of coffee in one hand, their legs spread in that relaxed masculine way as if they were there on a social visit.

She sat in the same chair, waving her mobile. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘my number is…’ She read it aloud, her eyes widening as she realised they matched the numbers written on the notebook. ‘It seems it is my number,’ she said unnecessarily.

Fanshawe took his notebook back with a satisfied nod. ‘So, although you don’t know Oliver Vine, you were sending him messages.’

Colour leeched from her face. The man on the canal. Oliver Vine. She gulped. ‘I didn’t know his name,’ she muttered. ‘A message. I sent him one message.’

‘Ah yes. What was it you wrote again?’ He turned pages in his notebook, stopping when he got to one, throwing her a look before reading, ‘I’m sorry I misread the signals. I don’t want to meet you. Please don’t come to my house again. I’ve told my husband how stupid I was. Now I want to forget it happened.’

DS Carstairs, who’d not yet opened his mouth, gave an unamused snort.

‘Were you and Oliver Vine lovers, Mrs Chatwell?’ Fanshawe asked calmly.

She ran a hand through her unbrushed hair. ‘No,’ she said emphatically, then dropped her hand into her lap. ‘No, we weren’t.’ She looked from one to the other of the men but if she expected a lessening of their stern regard, she was disappointed. They stared at her as if she was an object of fascination and didn’t say a word.

She’d watched enough police series in her day, she knew they were waiting for her to speak, to talk herself into something. What that was, she’d no idea. She blinked, taking stock. She had done nothing wrong. Humiliating herself wasn’t a crime.

‘I’m not sure what business it is of the police,’ she said, drawing her shoulders back and looking the detective inspector directly in the eye.

Fanshawe looked at her coldly. ‘Where were you between five and five-thirty yesterday afternoon?’

She shook her head, confused at the change in direction. ‘Why?’