‘Caine never dominated—’

She held up her hand.

‘You want to be one more person that lets them down?’ She gestured at the women waiting, their faces tight with nerves. ‘Then go now.’

But it’s my office, I wanted to say. But of course I said nothing. Instead I meekly put on the laminated badge that said Tara and I took my place at the table with the others, the three women and the smiling dead girl.

‘This is your office?’ Rani said, her accent mid-Atlantic.

I nodded. ‘Angel Eyes, the dating app. I don’t know if you’ve heard of us.’

‘You bet I have! Home of the crazies!’ Marta said.

So she had been reading about us too.

‘The Accidental Dater?’ she prompted me. ‘Isn’t she one of your clients?’

‘Whooh,’ I said. ‘Angel Eyes doesn’t have a monopoly on crazies. Do you know how many police call-outs the average dating app gets?’

‘I imagine it’s rather a lot,’ Marta said. ‘Christ, I need a smoke.’

Wendy was trembling under her Peruvian wrap.

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

‘I thought I would feel like I was taking control today,’ she whispered in a strong West Country accent. She laughed. ‘But I just feel nervous.’

I squeezed her hand.

‘Me too,’ I said.

Sophie stood up and spoke for all of us.

‘Abuse does not end with the death of the abuser,’ she began. ‘The abuse goes on and its wounds last for a lifetime.’ A searching pause. She was good. ‘James Caine was a grandmaster of coercive control. He was a groomer. He was a sexual predator. Above all, he was a man who loved to inflict psychic pain on women. He was a virtuoso of mental cruelty. He was—’

‘James Caine was a husband, a father and a beloved friend!’ shouted a well-spoken female voice from the back of the room. ‘James Caine was a decent man!’

The press pack turned its attention to an elegant woman in her middle years trailed by a lanky teenage girl.

‘Oh Christ,’ muttered Marta. ‘Not that mad cow.’

The angry widow had gatecrashed our press conference. Sandy Caine began walking around the perimeter of the media, their ranks shuffling back to give her space even as they pointed their phones and cameras at her. She was heading straight for us, her gawky daughter trying to keep up with her grimly determined mother, but around the halfway mark they got stuck in the crush of the crowd. The press pack had all turned towards her now, and we were suddenly forgotten, but Sandy Caine had not forgotten us and she jabbed a furious finger in our direction.

‘Any sex that my late husband had with these women was consensual, and if Jim was unfaithful,’ she said, and as her voice broke there was a flurry of action among the photographers, ‘then that is a matter for me and my husband.’

She glared at us defiantly.

‘Our marriage was strong. Our marriage was good. And’ – her face twisted with loathing – ‘I know these women! I know you all, don’t I?’