‘There was something else,’ she said, her lower lip quivering. ‘It may be nothing, but I’ve been going over and over the encounter.’ She saw Carstairs’ raised eyebrow and ignored him, keeping her eyes on the inspector. ‘Although he’d looked appalled when I tried to kiss him, when I went to run away I had to wrench my T-shirt from his hand. Why was he holding on so tightly? And why did he run after me for as long as he did? I’m fast and I soon left him behind, but I could hear him shouting after me. Why?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d embarrassed myself, but he’d done nothing. Why not just leave it?’

‘You couldn’t hear what he was shouting?’

Molly shook her head. ‘I was moving too fast and my feet were crunching noisily on the stony path.’

‘Probably called you a tart,’ Carstairs suggested.

She shot him a look. ‘He would have had no reason to, would he? As I have said, more than once, nothing happened. I only heard one of the words he was shouting,’ she said, looking back at Fanshawe. ‘It was, understand.’

18

Molly went through it again, every action or word she remembered, every nuance and tone until she was sick of the sound of her own voice going over and over the details of such a short period of her life.

Short but devastating.

Finally, when she wanted to scream that there was nothing more, Fanshawe told her she could go.

His words were sudden and unexpected, and she looked at him in confusion, wondering if this were some kind of trap for the unwary. It wasn’t until he and Carstairs stood and Fanshawe said they’d be in touch that she realised her ordeal was over.

It was a few seconds before she got to her feet, knees trembling, head swimming. She kept her hands flat on the table for support, unable to move. But when she felt tears well, she knew she had to get out of there. Following the exit signs, she was soon on Savile Row, stepping out onto the street with a feeling of relief. The rain had stopped, but ominous grey clouds reflecting her mood, drew her eyes upward and made her shiver.

She didn’t want to go home yet. Instead, she wandered down Regent and Oxford Street, swept along with crowds of shoppers and groups of tourists, trailing along aimlessly with them, wandering, backtracking, uncaring as to where she went, trying to exhaust herself so that she wouldn’t have to think.

Her legs were aching by the time she decided to go home. It was after six, Jack would be waiting. Going into automatic mode, she didn’t remember the journey home, catching the tube without much thought.