“All the work Greg had to do late at the office, that wasn’t because there were problems?”

“Did he often work late?” His tone was cautious, with an underlying note of sympathy.

I felt the blood flame into my cheeks. “That is, he came home late recently. Later than usual anyway.”

“Did he seem stressed?”

“No. At least, not really.”

“Not really?”

“You know, I keep thinking back and seeing things I didn’t notice at the time—or, at least, thinking I can see things. Maybe he was a bit preoccupied. Or maybe I’m making that up.”

There was a silence at the other end. I knew what Joe was thinking: that perhaps Greg was preoccupied because he was having an affair. I waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was too respectful of my feelings.

“If he was worried, though,” I continued, “I think he would have told me. He wouldn’t have protected me. That’s not the kind of marriage we had. That I thought we had. We were in things together; we shared things.”

“I think you’re right,” he said. “Greg would have told you.”

“You mean about everything?”

Another silence.

“Ellie, I’m finishing up here. Can I come around on my way home? I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can talk this through.”

“I won’t be here.”

I FOUND HER address in his old address book and decided to walk, even though she lived in Clerkenwell and probably wouldn’t be in anyway, and even though the drizzle outside was turning into a steady downpour. It didn’t feel like something I could express over the phone.

As I arrived, I saw her coming from the other direction, feeling in her bag for her door key. She was wearing a belted mac and a scarf tied around her head, and looked like a fifties film star in one of those classy black-and-white French movies.

“Hello.”

I stood in front of her and she looked at me with narrowed, suspicious eyes, then gave an exaggerated little start. “Ellie? My God. I meant to get in touch. I’m so very, very sorry. He was such a lovely—”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course. You’re soaked.”

I looked down at myself. I was still wearing my inquest clothes and had forgotten to put on a jacket. It was true that I was cold and wet. I must have looked dreadful.

I followed Christine up the stairs and into a spacious kitchen–living room. She took off her mac and hung it over the back of a chair, pulled the scarf off her head and shook out her chestnut hair.

“Do you live alone?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Just at the moment.” Then she offered me tea.

“No, thanks.”

“Or coffee, or a cold drink?”

“Is that the boiler Greg fixed?” I asked. “He never managed to get ours sorted.”