‘Constance Mortensen has identified herself as the driver of the vehicle on the night in question.’ He seems pleased about this. Confident now, firing on all his Dyson cylinders, he pulls out a small pile of photos wrapped together with an elastic band from the box. For a moment, I wonder whether he’s going to show me his holiday snaps. Here’s the wife and me in Margate . . . Here’s a Boeing 747, transit number 0985 . . . However, his face suggests otherwise. I watch him as he undoes the band. I try to catch Dr. Robinson’s eye but she is avoiding mine.

The band makes a snapping noise and he neatly puts it to one side. He looks at the first photograph for some time. I can’t see Dr. Robinson’s expression; she has her head bowed but at an angle – she is looking at it too. DS Allen slowly turns the photograph around, places it on the table and slides it smoothly across to me. At first I only notice his stumpy bitten fingernails.

I meet his eye and then I look down at the photo.

It is a picture of Annie lying on a white sheet: naked torso, hair loose, eyes shut and mouth gently open with a tube coming out of her nose – it looks like she’s taken that water tube from her hiking pack. She has fantastic bruises over her chest; they look incredibly real – dark reds and purples. I smile fondly: she’s excelled herself with the game this time. Another photo is pushed before me. It’s another one of Annie, from a different angle this time. I can see her felt pen‒stained hand lying open at her side. She’s wearing my black nail varnish on her fingernails; it’s mainly chipped off. And her thumb is sticking out – she’s probably just taken it out of her mouth. I look for evidence of her snuggler in her other hand, the bit of dirty old fur she likes to sniff as she sucks, but I can’t see it.

Another photo is pushed into my sightline. Ah, yes. It’s Polly. She’s lying on a white sheet too. She looks more restrained; Annie’s gone for the ghoulish look, perhaps overdone the bruising a tad. She too has a water tube coming out of her nose – they must have used Josh’s. He won’t like that.

I can’t help but laugh.

I look up at DS Allen and Dr. Robinson. They are not smiling. They are both staring at me with quietly shocked expressions on their faces. No one says anything.

Then DS Allen suddenly gets up, his chair making a loud scraping sound. He leans forward, placing those podgy fingers on the table, a little grey quiff of hair falling down the middle of his forehead, his face quite flushed and his strange voice oddly calm, ‘May you rot in hell, Mrs. Mortensen.’