‘Nothing did happen but I suppose,’ she admitted finally, ‘I had wanted it to. I was afraid he’d tell my husband–’

‘That you were up for it?’ Carstairs said, leaning towards her, a sneer twisting his mouth.

It was exactly what she’d thought but hearing the words on this obnoxious man’s lips made it sound so much more sordid. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what other possible reason would he have for contacting and wanting to meet me?’

‘And yet he went to the trouble of doing so,’ Fanshawe said. ‘You didn’t hear from him again?’

She handed him her phone. ‘Have a look,’ she said, ‘you can see he never answered.’

He took the phone and skimmed through without comment. ‘You might have deleted them,’ he said. ‘We’ll take it with us, if we may, and have it checked.’

It was a strange feeling, not to be believed. ‘Of course,’ she said.

Fanshawe put it into his jacket pocket and picked up his notebook. Turning to a clean page, he clicked his pen and looked at her expectantly. ‘What time did you leave work yesterday?’

‘I finish at four thirty,’ she said.

‘And you left immediately?’

She nodded and felt the blood rush from her as the seriousness of her position dawned on her. ‘You can’t think I’m anyway involved in what happened to him?’ She reached a hand toward Fanshawe, pulling back at his stern expression. ‘Oh my God, you do?’ Crossing her hands on her chest, she took a deep breath.

‘We’re gathering information for the moment,’ Fanshawe said, his voice cool. ‘We don’t speculate. It would be in your best interest to answer our questions as clearly and honestly as you can.’

A chill crept over her, making her shiver.

‘So,’ Fanshawe said. ‘You left work at four thirty. Did you come straight home?’

Reluctantly, she shook her head. ‘I decided to go to a bookshop one of my colleagues had recommended.’

Fanshawe looked up from his notebook. ‘And where is that?’

‘It’s called The Final Chapter. It’s a second-hand bookshop. They have a lot of rare and unusual books…’ Her voice tailed away.

‘Where?’

‘It’s on White Horse Street, a few minutes’ walk from the station.’

She saw his expression change, eyes growing harder, lips pressing into a thin line.

‘That’s Green Park station, isn’t it?’ he said, exchanging a glance with Carstairs. ‘How long did you stay in this shop?’

She lifted her hands. ‘An hour or so.’ She saw the inspector’s look of disbelief and added, ‘If you like books, it’s a fascinating shop.’

‘And the staff will be able to vouch for you being there for that length of time?’

It would have been good to have been able to say yes, but it was unlikely that the assistant would remember her. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.