‘Good.’ He peers at my screen. ‘Didn’t you go to school in Tilby?’

‘I did.’ I don’t remember telling him that, although it’s on my CV. But the man’s like a bloodhound.

‘You’re about the same age, aren’t you? Did you know this girl?’

I take a breath. ‘I’m … Actually, I’m not sure. I was friends with a Heather. But …’ But the Heather I knew would never have been capable of something like this, I want to say. The Heather I knew was sweet, quiet, kind. She always had so much time for people. The old woman with the beginnings of dementia whom we’d bump into in the corner shop: Heather would help her home when it was obvious she couldn’t remember the way. Or she’d pilfer blankets from her house to give to the homeless man who slept beneath the underpass when it was cold. She was always polite and well-mannered, remembering to say thank you to bus drivers and shopkeepers when I always forgot, desperate to eat my sweets or get to my destination.

Yet there was another side to her, too. I remember the last time I saw her: her green eyes had blazed, her fists clenched at her sides. That was the only time I’d ever seen her in a rage. I had been scared of her sudden unpredictability, like a horse I’d always thought placid that was now about to rear and buck. But it was towards the end of our friendship, when everything went wrong and she was angry with the world. With me. It was understandable.

I’ve tried not to think about Heather in recent years, but now a picture of her forms in my head, like a reflection in water, slowly sharpening and gaining focus. Dressed in a long, floaty skirt and DM boots, twirling around on the lawn, singing along to ‘Charlotte Sometimes’ by The Cure; the tinkling sound of the many bangles jangling on her arm; cantering on her little black pony, Lucky, her long dark hair cascading down her back.

I take a deep breath. I really need a fag.

Ted makes a smacking sound as he chews gum in my ear, reminding me he’s still standing beside me. ‘You better get your butt down to Tilby,’ he says, in his Essex accent. He’s lived in Bristol for years but has never managed to pick up the West Country twang. Although, when he’s had a few, he likes to rib me about mine. ‘And take Jack with you. See if it’s the Heather you knew at school. She’s unconscious so the police can’t charge her yet.’

The subtext being that we can print what we want until they do.