He was gabbling something. I couldn’t make out many words, but I got the sense. I was a godmother. Once I’d disconnected, I went and sat for a while in the kitchen. Outside, the sky had turned a dull white, as if it might snow. The house was quiet; the day ahead felt long and empty. I looked down at my hands, plaited together on the table, and told myself to stand up at once, go to my shed, get on with the work I’d planned for the day. My legs were heavy. It took an enormous effort to heave myself out of the chair.

The phone rang again. It was Detective Chief Inspector Stuart Ramsay—he said his whole name again, as if I might have forgotten him—and he wanted to know if I would come to the station.

“Why?” I asked. “What’s changed? What’s happened?” There was a deep breath at the other end, but before he could answer I interrupted him. “No, it’s all right. I’ll come. When?”

“Now? Do you want me to send a car to collect you?”

“No. I’ll make my own way. I can be there in about half an hour. Is that all right?”

RAMSAY HAD MY statement in front of him and looked tired. He did not offer me tea, barely glanced up. At last he said, “Is there anything you didn’t tell us in your statement?”

I thought back to the long interviews, one in Kentish Town and the other in Stockwell. I had rambled, repeated myself, repeated the repetitions, gone round in circles and off at tangents, included irrelevant information. Had I left anything out?

“I don’t think so,” I said eventually.

“Take your time.”

“I don’t need time,” I said. “I think I told you everything.”

He shuffled the papers, frowning. “Tell me, please, did you ever visit the site of your husband’s accident?”

“I don’t think it was an accident.”

“I’m asking you a question. It’s quite simple. Were you ever there?”

“How did you know?”

He looked up sharply. “Was I meant not to know?”

“Why are you asking me now?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, I went there.”

“And you didn’t see fit to tell us?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Is this yours?”

He took a transparent bag out of his drawer and held it up: my scarf.

“Yes.”

“It has blood on it. Whose blood would that be?”

“Mine!”

“Yours?”

“Yes. I cut myself, that’s all. Look, I went because I wanted to see where Greg had died. It was purely personal.”

“When?”

“When did I go?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know exactly. It was a long time ago. No, I do know. It was the day before Greg’s funeral and that was on the twenty-fourth of October so it must have been the twenty-third.”