‘So Mrs Overs,’ said the captain. ‘What exactly happened after you saw the VEE-hicle begin to turn?’ And there it was again, that misplaced syllable flying across the room and knocking her off course so that her answer was a hopeless fumble of contradictions in which the lorry either skidded, turned or braked before either braking, turning or skidding, and even as her mouth moved, she was doubting her own words. It was like recounting a fever dream, the images splintering and dissolving. Had she even been in Oxford Street in the first place?

‘Thank you, Mrs Overs,’ said the captain, interrupting her.

‘… I think,’ she heard herself add, in a final flourish of self-doubt.

‘Thank you,’ he repeated, sounding genuinely grateful.

‘You may step down, Mrs Overs,’ said the coroner, not sounding grateful at all.

The usher gestured her to the exit, and as Vee passed the three Embletons, the old lady gave her a pale nod, a tiny flexion of the features that was perhaps an attempt at a smile, and Vee didn’t know what to do with her own face – whether to offer sympathy or apology – so she mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ which covered both.

Noel clapped his book shut when he saw her.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

She kept walking towards the outer door, and he hurried to catch up with her. The hall outside was patterned with wet footprints, and she could see a thin, icy snowfall rattling against the lobby window, like rice at a cheap wedding.

‘I think I made a fool of myself,’ she said, putting on her gloves. ‘Not for the first time.’

‘Did you tell the truth?’

‘I tried,’ she said. ‘But it’s not nearly as easy as you’d think – one of the Yanks was badgering me about what I’d seen, he was going on and on, and then for a second I thought he said … well, I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the bus stop. Knowing you, you’ll think it’s funny.’

Noel opened the door, and snow blew into his face. ‘I’m just going outside and may be some time,’ he said, cryptically, pulling up his green scarf to cover his nose and mouth, and she followed him into the street, ducking a little as the cold wind hit her. He was almost tall enough to shield her from the weather and she shouted the vee-hicle story over his shoulder as they walked towards Kingsway, and sensed, rather than heard, his laughter.

‘The Americans will be pleased, anyway,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I expect the driver’s story was that he’d started to turn correctly before accidentally skidding across both lanes, and since you’re the only witness to say otherwise …’

‘You mean that he’ll end up getting away with it because of me?’

‘Probably.’

She didn’t quite know how she felt about that. ‘I suppose, either way, it wasn’t deliberate,’ she said.

‘But it was careless. If I waved a kitchen knife without looking and accidentally killed Mr Reddish, would that be my fault? And should I be punished for it?’