“Can we get you something? A glass of water, perhaps?”

“You say . . .”

“Your husband’s car left the road,” she said slowly and patiently. Her mouth stretched and shrank.

“Dead?”

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “Sorry for your loss.”

“The car caught fire.” It was the first time the younger woman had spoken. Her face was plump and pale; there was a faint smudge of mascara under one of her brown eyes. She wears contact lenses, I thought.

“Mrs. Falkner, do you understand what we have said?”

“Yes.”

“There was a passenger in the car.”

“Sorry?”

“He was with someone else. A woman. We thought . . . Well, we had thought it might be you.”

I stared dumbly at her. Did she expect me to produce identification?

“Do you know who that would have been?”

“I was just cooking supper for us. He should have been home by now.”

“Your husband’s passenger.”

“I don’t know.” I rubbed my face. “Didn’t she have her bag with her or anything?”

“They couldn’t recover much. Because of the fire.”

I put a hand against my chest and felt my heart beating heavily. “Are you sure it was Greg? There might have been a mistake.”

“He was driving a red Citroën Saxo,” she said. She looked down at her notebook and read out the registration number. “Your husband is the owner of the vehicle?”

“Yes,” I said. It was hard to speak properly. “Perhaps someone from work. He sometimes took them when he went to visit clients. Tania.” I found, as I was speaking, that I couldn’t bring myself to care if Tania was also dead. I knew that later this might disturb me.

“Tania?”

“Tania Lott. From his office.”

“Do you have her home number?”

I thought for a moment. It would be on Greg’s mobile, which was with him. I swallowed hard. “I don’t think so. It might be somewhere. Do you want me to look?”

“We can find out.”

“I don’t want you to think me rude, but I’d like you to go now.”

“Have you got someone you can call? A relative or friend?”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I want to be alone,” I said.

“You might want to talk to someone.” The younger woman pulled a leaflet out of her pocket: she must have put it there before they’d left the station together. All prepared. I wondered how many times they did this in a year. They must get used to it, standing on a doorstep in all weathers with an expression of sympathy on their faces. “There are numbers here of counselors who can help you.”

“Thank you.” I took the leaflet she was holding out and put it on the table.

Then she offered me a card.

“You can reach me here if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be all right?”