Adrian caught her eye. He wanted her to know that he was serious, that he meant what he was saying. Part of him wanted her to know that he understood what she was feeling, the powerlessness and the loss of hope. The circumstances were different, but the root of their pain was the same.

‘Wait a minute,’ Angela said suddenly. ‘Did you say the body in Oswestry was under the greenhouse?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Well, that can’t be Clive. He was one of the men who put the greenhouse up. It went up a few weeks before he disappeared.’ Angela’s face became clouded in confusion, as if she was trying to remember.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Imogen asked.

‘I am. I remember because he bought me an orchid to look after. He gave it me as a birthday gift to put in the greenhouse after it was finished.’

Just like that, the bewildered look on her face disappeared and she plastered on her phoney dutiful-wife face.

‘Who else could it be if not him?’ Imogen asked.

Angela shrugged then changed the subject.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Imogen answered.

Adrian could see Angela’s brow furrowing as though trying to remember something.

‘We’re going to get him, Angela, but it would be so much easier with your testimony,’ Imogen said.

Angela seemed to be considering what she was saying.

‘Fine, I’ll talk to you. But first I need to go to the bathroom.’

‘Thank you,’ Imogen said, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘Take a seat. I will be right back.’

Angela walked into the hallway and then seconds later, they heard the front door slam followed by the thrum of an engine and tyres on the gravel path outside.

‘Shit!’ Imogen said.

They rushed to the window to see her driving away. She was gone.

Chapter Seventy-Five

I squirm as he kisses me. He runs his fingers through my hair. He tells me he loves me and I smile, hating myself as I do so. Always well behaved, always doing what I am told. We are in the kitchen and the kettle has just boiled. I imagine picking it up and pouring it over his head, his puffy red skin peeling away from the face that I have grown to hate. In my mind, his scream is a high-pitched wail as his flesh blisters and burns.

I’ve had this fantasy before, but I never pick up the kettle, just like I never pick up the knife or any of the other things I think about killing him with. I am not brave, or maybe R is right, maybe trying that wouldn’t be bravery at all, it would be stupidity.