“The funeral seemed to go off all right,” he said cautiously, as he filled the kettle and slid a slice of bread into the toaster.

“The funeral was crap.”

He smiled ruefully at me.

“No one knew what to say to me.”

“It’s over, at least.”

“Not really.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised. “What d’you mean?”

“I’ve decided to believe him.”

The kettle started to boil, sending puffs of steam into the air. Very methodically, he measured spoonfuls of coffee into the pot, then poured in the water. Only when he had handed me the hot mug did he look me in the eye. “Come again?” he said.

“Greg didn’t have an affair.”

“Oh,” said Fergus, putting his mug carefully on to the table with a click, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Right.”

“On the one hand there’s how it appears, him dying with this other woman.”

“Yes.”

“And on the other is my trust.”

“Yes.”

“I’m keeping faith. I’m not abandoning him.”

I waited for Fergus to say that he was dead, but he didn’t. He said, “I see,” and picked up his mug again, staring at me over the rim. “Well, that’s good, I suppose.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good, I mean, if it lets you come to terms with what’s happened.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Because what has happened?”

Fergus frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, so it stood on end, giving him the look of a sad clown. He dipped his finger into his coffee and licked it. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking, Ellie?” he said eventually.

“When you were doing work for him, in the office, did you see any sign that he was . . . you know—involved?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. That doesn’t mean—”

I interrupted what I knew he was going to say. “Look, Fergus, Greg died with another woman. But he wasn’t having an affair with her. He wasn’t. OK? So, what were they doing together? That’s the question, isn’t it? For a start there are other possibilities.” Fergus looked at me and didn’t speak. “Just off the top of my head she might have been a hitchhiker.”

Fergus thought for a moment. “Not wanting to be a devil’s advocate, but this woman—”

“Milena Livingstone.”

“She was some sort of businesswoman, no?”

“Sort of.”

“Do they tend to hitchhike? In London?”

“Or just some business contact.”

“Absolutely.”

“That he was giving a lift to.”

“All right.”

“So you believe him?”

“Ellie, he’s not here to believe. Your husband—my best friend, the man we both loved and miss like hell—is dead. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? It’s as if by somehow persuading yourself that he wasn’t fucking another woman, he won’t be dead after all. You’ll go mad if you keep on like this.”