While I wait for Sergeant Collins, I make a mug of tea I don’t drink, then pace around the kitchen. Eventually, her car pulls up outside and two uniformed figures make their way towards the door.

Without waiting for a knock, I open it. If Sergeant Collins is shocked by my appearance, she doesn’t show it. ‘Mrs Buckley? May we come in?’

‘Of course. Please.’ Leaving the door open, I hear one of them close it as I go into the kitchen. When I turn around to look at them, I lose my voice as the reality of what I’m about to do hits me full on.

Sergeant Collins nods towards the man with her. ‘This is Constable Emerson.’ Vaguely recognising him, I nod, and she goes on. ‘Would you mind if we make us all a pot of tea?’

Realising she’s trying to inject normalcy into a situation that’s anything but, I start towards the sink. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘If you show him where the teabags are, Emerson will do it.’ She hesitates. ‘Let’s sit down.’

Nodding, I follow her to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. She sits opposite me, waiting a moment before she says, ‘I understand your husband has assaulted you.’

Years of habit kick in as I bite back the excuses I want to make. I fell down the stairs. We had a row and he lost his temper. It was just one of those things. But thinking of Niamh, I know I can’t do that anymore. ‘Yes.’

‘When did this assault take place?’ Her voice is gentle, but there’s steeliness behind it.

My body is rigid as I sit there. ‘Three days ago. I came back from hospital today.’

‘Apart from the obvious bruises on your face, did he hurt you anywhere else?’

‘He punched me in the stomach.’ The words sound light, belying the force he hit me with.

As Emerson joins us, carrying mugs of tea, Collins puts down her pen, her face sympathetic as she looks at me. ‘I hate to ask you this, but we need you to tell us what happened, including what was said leading up to his assault or what may have caused it.’

Knowing this was coming, I nod. ‘I had found a cottage for Niamh and me to move to.’ Seeing Sergeant Collins lift her hand slightly towards her pen, I pause.

‘Niamh is your daughter, isn’t she? How old is she?’

‘She’s fourteen. Andrew’s behaviour has become worse lately.’ I sigh, knowing I need to tell them everything, wondering how far back I should go.

‘It’s OK. We’re not in a hurry. Take your time.’