When Detective Chief Inspector Ramsay came to see me on the Monday morning it wasn’t anything at all like his previous visit. Even his ring at the door sounded different, more insistent and uncompromising. A younger colleague had come with him, awkward in his shiny new suit, as if Ramsay needed someone to protect him from any hint of flirtatiousness, of informality, of special treatment. There was no jovial suggestion of watching me work. He insisted on going through to the living room, where I felt out of place in my smelly, dusty work clothes. Worst of all was his expression, closed off, almost glassy-eyed, as if we hadn’t met before, as if he was only going by a first impression and it wasn’t good. When I offered them tea, he began speaking as if he hadn’t heard.

“I thought you might be interested to know. We sent an officer around to Pike and Woodhead to check your alibi. Unfortunately they didn’t have the receipt.”

He stopped and looked at me, his expression still and unyielding, as if waiting for some justification.

“I’m sorry about the waste of time,” I said. “I remember signing for it but they must have thrown it away.”

“No, they didn’t,” said Ramsay. “But someone had collected it and taken it away before we got there.”

“Who?”

“You.”

For a moment, my vision went dark, dark with little golden speckles, like it does when you’ve looked at the sun by mistake. I had to sit down. I couldn’t speak. When I did, it took an immense effort. “Why do you say it was me?”

“Are you serious?” said Ramsay. He took out his notebook. “Our officer talked to an office manager at the firm. A Mr. Hatch. He checked the file, found the piece of paper was missing, but there was a note saying it had been taken by a Ms. Falkner. By you.”

For a vertiginous moment I let myself wonder whether it was possible that I really had gone over to the office, collected the docket and suppressed the memory of it. Perhaps this was what being mad was like. It might explain everything. Part of my mind had known about Greg’s infidelity, had been responsible for other terrible things and had hidden them behind a mental wall. Hadn’t I heard about that? About people who had suffered traumas and buried them so they wouldn’t have to confront the implications? People who had committed crimes, forgotten them and truly believed they were innocent? It would almost have been a relief to yield to that, but I didn’t.

“Where is it?” said Ramsay.

“I don’t have it,” I said. “It wasn’t me.”