“Are you a friend of hers?” Without giving me time to answer, she said, “Didn’t you know?”

There was a fraction of a moment when I could have said, yes, I knew, because the man she died with was my husband. But something stopped me. “Know what?” I said.

“Come in for a second. Sorry, my name’s Frances Shaw.”

She held out a hand and I shook it. Her grip was warm, strong; I saw that her nails were painted the palest pink. I stepped over the threshold and she shut the door behind us, then led me along a corridor.

“Better come downstairs into the office, if you can call it that. I’m in total chaos, I’m afraid.” She led me into the basement, a large room with a long table in the center; on its surface were several roughly stacked heaps of paper and files. There was a sofa covered with brochures and a desk pushed up against the wall, also piled high with folders.

A phone was ringing and a young woman, with dramatically dark eye shadow and very high-heeled boots, came out of the adjoining room. “Shall I get that?” she asked.

“No, let the machine answer it,” said Frances. “I tell you what, though, Beth, perhaps you could make us a cup of coffee. If you want coffee, that is,” she added, turning to me.

“Coffee would be lovely.” I was a bit dazed.

“Have a seat.” Frances scooped up the brochures from the sofa, looked at them helplessly, then laid them on the floor. “When did you last see Milena?”

“I don’t want to give you the wrong impression . . .” I said.

The phone rang again and then her mobile, which was lying on the table. “Damn. Sorry. I’ll be with you in a second.” She flipped it open and turned away from me. I heard her murmuring something. Upstairs, cupboard doors banged and Beth’s heels clicked across the floor. I sat on the sofa, taking off my jacket. The warm, cluttered room was like a nest.

Frances snapped shut her mobile and sat beside me. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. I’m so sorry to have to tell you that Milena died.”

That was my last chance to say who I was, but I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps it was a relief to be the onlooker for a while, rather than the victim.

“Oh!” I said, and rubbed my face because I wasn’t sure what my expression should be.

“This must be a shock.”

“I wasn’t exactly close to her,” I said, which was true.

“She died recently in a car crash.”

“How terrible,” I muttered. I felt like an actor, saying lines that made little sense to me.

“It was awful. She was with a man.” There was a pause. “Someone nobody knew even existed.”