‘Slave labour,’ she replies, lifting my spirits ever so slightly. At least this nightmare hasn’t erased Amber’s sense of humour.

There’s still no news from Tom and now my body is aching all over so I’m going to lie down on the bed. If I can read, it will drag my thoughts somewhere else for a while. I take one last look out the window. The night is still. Fewer lights shining from the opposite side of the street.

Tom must be exhausted down there at this hour of the night. What could he be telling them that would take this long? They must be finished with him soon. Lifting my cell, I decide to ring the station again. A male voice answers this time but he can’t tell me anything except that Tom is still there. I try to engage him in conversation, ask him if he had any idea when Tom would be home but he knows nothing.

Anxiety is lying in the bed with me. Holding me hostage. Reading doesn’t help. The words on the page are blocked from entering my head by the big question that has now set up camp there. What if Tom has got something to do with the woman’s murder?

Don’t be silly, I tell myself, Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly. I know this. I love him and I’ve been married to him fifteen years. He’s never once raised a hand to me. He rarely even raised his voice to me. His idea of being angry is to say nothing and head to the pub. He hasn’t got a violent gene flowing through his blood. I know, I’ve seen what that gene looks like.

So why is he still down there?

Moments later I get my answer. Tom pushes open the bedroom door and walks over to my side of the bed.

‘You’re back!’ Dragging a misplaced smile across my face I sit up straight.

He rushes over to me, his hug almost crushing me. ‘I’m so sorry, Sal, you must have been up the wall but they wouldn’t let me ring you.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Did Ma tell you?’

‘Yes, she said they wanted to ask you questions about the dead woman.’

Tom stands and walks towards the en suite. I wonder why he asked that? Was he checking to see if I already knew why he was brought in, was he planning to spin me the line about the bicycle accident like I did to Amber?

He opens the door of the en suite, about to walk inside when I say, ‘What happened, Tom?’

Turning to face me, a shadow in the low light cast from the bedside lamp, Tom stretches both arms out to the frame of the door.