circling round these points, rephrasing the questions slightly but still reverting to the same subjects. Their approach wasn’t exactly adversarial, but I began to wonder how I would respond to it if I were guilty, if I did have anything to hide. And I didn’t. The one piece of information I’d considered keeping secret, the fact that I’d explored the rest of the flat, I had already revealed to the uniforms in the Panda.
And yet I couldn’t lose a residual feeling of guilt, the kind one used to feel, regardless of one’s innocence, in the presence of a headmistress.
The detail that seemed to obsess the police was why I had come to the flat on the Hargood Estate. I explained exhaustively what my job was, but they still didn’t get it. I told them how the visit had been arranged by Hilary through the Housing Association and gave them their contact details. That didn’t seem to help. They went back to asking me whether I’d ever met Maureen or Nate Ogden. It took a long time for them to accept no as an answer.
By then, it was a quarter to eleven, and they couldn’t come up with any reason to detain me longer. The detective inspector did warn me that further questioning might be necessary at a later date. He gave me his card, with numbers to ring, and an email address, in case I remembered anything else that might be relevant to their investigation.
Then he asked me to let them know of any travel plans I might have.
‘What, you think I might flee the country?’ I asked, to lighten the tone a bit.
My interrogator had no desire for the tone to be lightened. ‘It has been known,’ he said lugubriously.
Rarely have I been so glad to get back into the Yeti.
I had to concentrate like mad on the journey back to Chichester. I was so exhausted I genuinely worried about falling asleep over the steering wheel. And my worry about not hearing back from Ben grew uncomfortably.
It vanished when I got back, mind you. He was absolutely fine. More than fine, he’d cooked a really nice chilli con carne for me to come home to. And opened a bottle of Merlot.
I thought I’d be too exhausted to eat, but the first glass of wine relaxed me. And Ben was in one of his very chatty, funny moods.
‘So, what kept you so late, Ma?’ He only calls me ‘Ma’ when he’s feeling good. It’s one of those things that started as an affectation, almost a joke, and kind of stuck. But he still always says it in a slightly ironic way, as if he’s sending up his usage of the word. ‘Fancy man?’
‘I should be so lucky. No, it was work.’ I didn’t elaborate on how I spent the evening. Ben wouldn’t have found that odd. I do have a strict confidentiality deal with my clients. I might sometimes speak about a job I’m on in the abstract, mentioning no names, but Ben respects my choice when I don’t discuss work.
Besides, thinking about the nastiness of the evening I had just been through, I could never be sure what was likely to upset Ben.
The chilli con carne was excellent. Cooking is just one of many skills Ben has, along with his artistic talent and his empathy with computer technology. And as I sat opposite him, eating the food he’d cooked for me, drinking the wine he’d poured for me, I realized all over again how much I love my son.
And how much I worry about him.
I’m in utter darkness. There’s a strap diagonally over my front, hard against my sternum, dividing my breasts. Another is tight across my thighs. I’m anxious and sweaty. I need fresh air. I swallow.
What I breathe feels like air. But it does not refresh like air. I gasp, taking down more of it, hoping that this mouthful will bring the release of oxygen. But it gives me nothing. A dry rasp at the back of my throat, a taste of metal, a tightening sensation behind my eyes. Pain, a gasping, rasping pain, that scours my throat and chokes me with the certainty that I will never breathe again.
I wake in a tangle of sweaty bedclothes. What I thought was a strap across my chest turns out to be a tightened twist of sheet. Even the darkness is no longer utter. The red glow of my clock radio tells me that it is 3.17 a.m. I