‘I didn’t write that, did I? Can I have it back please?’ Mary grabbed it and held it tight. She’d burn it tonight. ‘On one masturbatory occasion, I thought about Liam Macdowall, but that doesn’t mean I had feelings for him, other than work-related ones, most of them very negative.’

‘Aren’t you married?’ asked retirement cop.

‘Yes, and over the thirty years I have been, I’ve masturbated while fantasising about other men approximately twice a week – are you writing this down? You should be writing this down. Therefore – thanks to not being fucked up about sex, thanks to having a healthy relationship with my husband, and also a huge thanks to my vibrators, particularly the Just Ears – highly recommended – I have “pure come like a banshee” to hundreds of men, known and from off the telly. He was a killer, a lifer; he was antisocial, pro-criminal, unemployed and unemployable, alcoholic and a terrible father. I thought about him once, and never again. He’s no more important to me than a topless roofer or an inappropriate masseur. He was briefly D list in my hefty and not abnormal wank bank.’

Retirement cop no longer looked dead inside and was taking energetic notes: ‘Bunny Ears, you say?’

Teen cop threw her colleague the evil eye.

‘Just Ears. Great for Mother’s Day,’ Mary said.

Catherine had left three urgent messages on Mary’s Blackberry, the last of which was: Off to Peterhead. Stay at home and rest. Meeting has been arranged for Mon in office at 4pm, so take it easy and cu then.

This meeting could take two forms: supervision with Catherine, in her cosy office. Catherine would ask Mary if she was okay, offer her a tissue when she cried about killing her client, reassure her she did not kill him, offer the telephone number of a counsellor specialising in post-traumatic stress disorder, phone her GP and make an urgent appointment. She would resign with immediate effect and they would hug. Mary would hold her head high as she walked to her desk, and everyone would clap because Mary had suffered in this place for thirty years and it was over.

(They’d clap, but they’d hate her guts cos not everyone’s got a rich twat husband, do they?)

Or the meeting could be more formal. Fact finding. This would take place in the conference room on the ground floor, with the windows that had never opened, and which smelt of the sweat of neglectful mothers. Present at this meeting would be Catherine, her boss, and maybe her boss’s boss. Mary would be terrified, but confident. She was not afraid of the facts. Despite the nature of the meeting, her colleagues would be kind and supportive. She would hand in her resignation and leave quietly by the back door with her head held high-ish.