I attempted a smile. I did not want to call Tara. I did not want to talk to her. I was not that brave.

‘Not off the top of my head. Why am I here?’

‘Motive,’ she said.

It was always that simple for the police.

He went to bed with your wife and so you killed him.

‘And someone must have pointed a finger at you.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

Someone who loved him, I thought. Someone who loved the bastard.

‘Do you have any questions, Mr Carver?’

‘I was wondering – do you know if my son went to school today?’

For the first time DI Ure lost patience with me. ‘Mr Carver, do you understand what is happening to you? You have been arrested on suspicion of murder. What do you have to say about that allegation?’

What was happening at home? I thought of Marlon and I was gripped by a panic that threatened to consume me.

‘Please look at me, Mr Carver.’

In front of the detective was a file filled with forms, photographs.

‘Do you know this man?’

She pushed across the table a photograph of a successful businessman in his expense-account, executive-class prime. Some kind of official corporate headshot. A handsome man, craggy but well groomed. No stranger to the male moisturiser. The last of the great suit and ties. Nice smile.

I shook my head.

‘Can you answer for the tape?’

I stared stupidly at the tape recorder, remembering it was there. ‘No.’

‘Look again.’

And I saw it was James Caine.

I knew it was James Caine all along.

‘I met him. Yesterday.’ Yesterday? It felt like a thousand years ago. ‘He said he wanted to buy our house. He came with his daughter. Amy. He looked at my records.’

‘Your records?’

‘Albums. LPs. Vinyl. My music. And he acted as if he knew her – Tara – my wife.’

Did I know? That was when I knew. That was when the fog lifted and I saw it all, as plain as the blood on your face. I mean the nose on your face.

‘He talked about her as if he knew her,’ I said, my voice tangled up with pain.

‘James Caine died sometime last night in his suite at the Langham Hotel,’ DI Ure said. ‘And we believe it was murder.’

‘Why do you think it was murder?’

‘Someone had caved in his head with a blunt instrument, Mr Carver. That was our first clue.’

We both waited. I was glad he was dead. I didn’t say it, but I think it showed in my face.

‘Our forensic people have lifted prints and DNA from the crime scene. We are still waiting for them to be processed. Are any of those prints likely to belong to you, Mr Carver?’

I had to think about it. To lie awake all night in a police cell leaves you with a special kind of exhaustion.

‘I don’t think so.’