small, and far too hot. A table, old-looking, rickety, with four chairs. Another, smaller table against one wall, upon which were a glass jug full of water and a tower of brown paper cups. They’d made me wait, on my own, for a good half an hour before they finally came in and sat down opposite me, and in that time I’d started to feel headachy, my temples beginning to pulsate. Why was it so hot? I couldn’t see any radiators – was it underfloor heating, maybe? There was a cup of water on the table in front of me but when I’d taken a cautious sip it tasted stale, tepid. I’d put it down again, aware that my palms were beginning to sweat. I was so tired too, my head fuzzy. I hadn’t told Eva, but I’d had another bad dream the previous night, another nightmare. The details had faded now, the dream melting away with the daylight, but I could still remember running, running fast in the dark, stumbling, picking myself up and running again, gripped by a terrible fear, heart pounding, breath catching in my throat. I could hear, somewhere far behind me, the terrible sound of wailing, a low keening sound, the sound of somebody in dreadful pain, and yet I kept on running, terrified, desperate to get away. When I woke up I was again drenched in sweat, the bedclothes twisted around my legs, and my sleep for the rest of the night had been fitful and disturbed. The last thing I needed now was to be sitting in a police station, especially when I had no idea what this was about. Why did they need to talk to me again so urgently, and – and this was what was making me feel so anxious – why had their attitude towards me seemingly changed suddenly, from sympathetic and concerned during our previous encounters to abrupt and matter of fact?
When DS Clarke and another officer – yet another I’d never met before – had arrived at the house earlier Eva and I, supermarket run done, had been curled up on the sofa, picking at some cheese and crackers, trying with little success to come up with new explanations for Danny vanishing, for his lies. The police had simply told me that new information about my husband’s disappearance had come to light, and that I must accompany them to the station immediately for questioning. But they’d spoken to me in brusque tones, DS Clarke informing me that no, it wouldn’t be possible for Eva to come with me, the other officer simply suggesting tersely that I get a coat and put some shoes on and asking me if I had a solicitor I wanted to call.
‘A … a solicitor? Why would I need a solicitor? What’s happened? No, I don’t have one, does that matter?’ I’d asked, my stomach starting to flutter uneasily.
The officer had muttered that no, it didn’t matter, that a duty solicitor would be made available to me if I wanted one, but I shook my head, telling him that wouldn’t be necessary. My husband was missing – maybe, as Eva and I were now thinking, in some sort of trouble, maybe in hiding because of something he had done, someone he had upset, or maybe, just maybe, he’d run off with another woman, something I was still barely allowing myself to think about. So why on earth would I, his wife, the one he’d abandoned for whatever reason, need a solicitor? Had they found out what he’d been up to, and thought we were in it together, maybe? If so, what was it? What the hell was I about to find out about my husband?
It seemed I wouldn’t have to wait much longer for the answer, because there they were, finally sitting in front of me – DS Clarke and his boss, DCI Helena Dickens, formalities concluded, about to start the interview. It was being recorded, videoed too, and the thought made me even more anxious. I felt scruffy in jeans and trainers and a sloppy sweatshirt, my hair scraped back into a messy ponytail; not how I would have dressed if I’d known I was being interviewed by the police today. Would they sit down together later, maybe a room full of police officers, and scrutinize it, scrutinize me? And yet, I thought, did it matter if they did? I had nothing to hide, whatever they thought, for it seemed clear to