Recalling my own late-night drunken visits to Mitch’s flat all those years ago lent me a measure of sympathy. Arthur would soon tire of neurotic vigils and move on. That was what I believed until after the police visit. I realised then that I was dealing with something far more sinister.

Shocked back to reality by DCI Kent’s insinuations, I knew I had to pull myself together. I needed to work out what was going on and to extricate myself from the accusations of murder. It seemed bizarre and farfetched to suspect Arthur of murdering Mitch but suddenly things became a bit clearer.

I would happily have left Oliver to rot in prison but now things had taken such a dramatic turn, with a finger pointing in my direction, I had to shake off the apathy. Wallowing in the nightmare wasn’t going to help prove my innocence.

I agreed to meet Arthur a couple of days after the police visit. I got my hair cut again, cropped short and severe, and buried my femininity. I dressed down in jogging bottoms and T-shirt. Comfort and efficiency were my choice in dealing with the aftermath of Mitch’s death.

At eight sharp, Arthur knocked on the door. I’d been watching him down on the street below from behind the blinds. He’d been standing there, bottle of wine and bunch of flowers in hand, since seven thirty.

A draught filtered through a slit in the window frame where a small piece of rotting wood had come loose. I shivered and opened the door, bracing myself against the stranger who stood on the doorstep proffering gifts.

‘Rebecca, it’s lovely to see you,’ Arthur said as he determinedly stepped across the threshold. He leant in and kissed me on the cheek. The aftershave was familiar. ‘Autumn’ had been Mitch’s favourite. He’d kept a bottle in his bathroom.

‘Arthur, come in.’ I opened the door tentatively but didn’t lock it behind us.‘How have you been?’ he began. ‘I see you’ve had your hair cut. It suits you,’ he lied. I’d grown my hair back to its full luxuriant length after Mitch and I got back together but now the short style clung savagely to my scalp. ‘Although, if I’m entirely honest,’ Arthur continued, ‘I think I preferred the longer look.’

At first I couldn’t work out what was odd about Arthur’s appearance. He was wearing what appeared to be a very expensive beige cashmere jumper over a silk shirt. His cream trousers had the hang of an exclusive designer label but the dirty trainers and navy socks belonged to someone else.

We sat down and made mundane conversation.