I try another tack. ‘It’s all so sad,’ I begin, ‘what happened to Flora and now you, in this awful situation.’ I reach for her hand again. ‘You know, if you did ever want to tell your side of the story, in your own words …’

She snatches her hand away. ‘I thought you were here as my friend.’

‘I am. But I can’t lie to you, Heather. You’re all over the news already. Everybody speculating, putting words in your mouth. People need to understand that you’re human. Not some …’ I pause for dramatic effect, making sure she’s paying attention ‘… cold-blooded killer.’

She blinks, studying my face, but doesn’t say anything.

‘I want people to know the real you. The you we all know and love. The wife. The mother …’

‘The murderer,’ she adds bitterly. Is she thinking of her father? She doesn’t know I know about that. She never told me. Then she adds, ‘Everyone obviously thinks I killed the Wilsons.’

‘No … I don’t know. Look, we don’t need to dwell on that bit so much. I want people to see you as I see you. Gentle, kind …’

‘You haven’t seen me for nearly twenty years,’ she says levelly. ‘How do you know I’m kind?’

‘Well, you used to be. You’d do anything for anyone. And, according to your mum, you haven’t changed. She said you’re a brilliant mother to Ethan.’

She’s silent. ‘I don’t know …’

And in that moment I feel it. That familiar swell of excitement in my gut, the anticipation that she’s wavering, that I might be the only journalist in the UK with a story from Heather’s point of view. A surge of adrenalin shoots through me. ‘You could read it through before anything is published. Show them all that you’re just a normal wife and mother. Put doubt in their minds … But,’ I lean forward, as if telling her a secret, ‘we need to be quick, because once you’re charged with this, Heather, proceedings will be active and there will be restrictions on what can be printed.’

‘I think the police are coming to interview me tomorrow. The doctors said if I’m well enough today …’

‘Can you put them off? Say you’re still ill? Just until after Friday?’

She looks doubtful. ‘That’s two days away.’

‘If we printed this, you’d get sympathy from the public. It could make a difference, Heather, especially if it ended up going to trial.’

Something crosses her face. Panic, maybe. ‘I don’t know …’ she says again, reaching over to place her takeaway cup on the bedside unit.

Come on, Heather. Come on.

‘Think about it,’ I say, trying to sound understanding rather than frustrated. ‘I could write something based on what I know already and give it to you to read. You wouldn’t really need to do anything.’