“How did you lose the mirror?” Waterhouse asks.

“A teenage boy racer drove too close to me and smashed it off. He was so desperate to get ahead of me he overtook me on the wrong side, on the left.”

“Did you report it?”

“No. He didn’t stop; I didn’t get his registration—he got away too quickly, just . . . whizzed off into the sunset.”

“When did this happen, exactly?”

“Why does it matter? It’s got nothing to do with—”

“When was the accident?”

“Not last Wednesday but the one before.”

“Is there anyone who can verify that you’ve not had a passenger-side mirror since a week last Wednesday?” asks Waterhouse. “Your husband, maybe?”

“No. Please leave him out of this.”

“Anyone else, then?”

“No!” I clutch the disintegrating tissue in my right hand. “Look, my husband doesn’t know, OK? I park my car in the garage. He parks his in the drive, and he’s always out before me in the mornings and back later than me at the end of the day. He hasn’t seen my car since the mirror’s been missing.”

“You didn’t mention it to him?” Sergeant Sam asks.

“No, I didn’t! You know why? Because he’d have made a big holier-than-thou thing of it—insisted I get it fixed before I drove the car again, and that just wasn’t . . . practical! I didn’t want him to give me a hard time, so I kept quiet about it.”

Sorry, Adam. It’s kind of true, though.

“Did your children notice your car had lost a mirror?” Waterhouse asks.

I shake my head. “Not the kind of thing they’d spot.”

“So you can’t prove that what you’re saying’s true?”

“Yes, I can!” I hate this man. More than I would if I had nothing to hide. I hate him for seeing through me. The only person allowed to know how flawed and desperate I am is me. “Come to my house anytime you want—right now, if you like, and I’ll show you my car!”

What the fuck are you doing, Nicki? What if he says, “All right, let’s go”? What’s the plan then?

“So you’ve not driven anyone anywhere for a week and a half? No one’s sat in your passenger seat and noticed a gap where a mirror should be? A friend, maybe? A family member?”

My heart starts to pound like the hooves of a frightened horse.

A friend and a family member. Melissa, the Sunday before last.

How can he know? He does, though, I’m sure of it. What other CCTV footage has he looked at, apart from today’s? His eyes are drilling into mine, challenging me.

I’m going to have to tell the truth and worry about Mel later.