“She was wearing it midafternoon.” Melissa’s hand finds Eve’s. “We went for a walk; she was wearing it then.”

“Where was your husband at that time?” He turns his scrutiny to Melissa.

“He was in his office.”

“Can you describe his behavior later that day?”

“He was angry.”

“Why?”

“He’d been drinking.” It feels dangerous to admit this in their house; she glances around swiftly as if terrified Paul were lounging against the wall of the kitchen, listening to her every word.

“So he took it out on you.” He inspects her face; he doesn’t need a reply. “You put your belongings and your cat in the car earlier today when you drove from this house,” he continues.

Melissa feels Grace’s hand slide into hers; now all three of them are linked together.

“That’s right.” Melissa lifts her chin, meeting his eyes. “I was leaving him.”

“All marriages have their problems; despite this, they often continue for years, as yours had done. What were you escaping from today of all days, the second day of Sorrel Kershaw’s disappearance? What exactly made you snap?”

He is implying she knows something about Sorrel, that she might have been running from something terrible; if there is something terrible to find, it has yet to be discovered.

“It had nothing to do with Sorrel,” she replies, but the bulging eyes continue to stare; he looks unconvinced. The silence in the kitchen swells until she can’t bear it anymore. “All right, I discovered he’s been raping our live-in maid.” The words sound worse in the kitchen than they did in her head, starker, more grim. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said that. Eve’s hands have started to tremble; she might be thinking that if Paul raped Lina and was behind Sorrel’s disappearance, he could have raped her little girl too.

“Your maid told you this?” Detective Gordon raps out.

“She didn’t need to, she is pregnant.”

“That doesn’t mean he raped her.”

“It probably does.” Melissa lowers her voice. “He has done exactly the same to me for years, I’ve been raped more times than I can count. Last night was worse than usual.”

Grace’s hand squeezes hers tightly. Detective Gordon assesses her with a narrowed gaze; she unzips the neck of her tracksuit top a few inches and his glance travels over the red stain on her neck and chest. The expression in his eyes grows opaque, judgments are being made behind them, impossible to guess at; her words wouldn’t stand up in a court of law but she sees she is believed.

“How old is your maid?”

“Fifteen.”

“Name?”

“Lina.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s safe. We need to find Sorrel—”

“That’s why we need to speak to Lina; if she’s been in contact, intimate contact, with your husband, it’s possible she might have vital information that could lead us to Sorrel.”

They’ll send a car to Salisbury, it will screech to a halt outside that ordinary-seeming house. Lina will be taken from her room, maybe sent back to Syria. Melissa stares back saying nothing, as the seconds beat past. No one moves until Grace does; she leans forward so her face is close to Detective Gordon’s.