Having made the drinks, Proust left them sitting in a row on the tray and stood back to admire them, pleased with his little line-up. Hey was talking to Sam about his drive to Spilling, how long it had taken from Cambridge. Had Sam asked him? Simon hadn’t heard if he had.

‘It’s the A14 that can be a real killer,’ Hey was saying. ‘Bumper to bumper, crawling forward. There’s always an accident.’

‘But you managed to avoid the A14 tonight,’ Simon chipped in. Hey looked confused. ‘No, I…’ When he saw Proust walking towards him, he put out his hands and smiled, ready to take his cup of coffee. Then he saw what the inspector was holding and took a step back.

It was a pair of handcuffs.

‘Jonathan Hey, I’m arresting you for the murders of Geraldine and Lucy Bretherick,’ said Proust, ‘and for the murders of Encarnación and Amy Oliva-your wife and daughter.’

Friday, 10 August 2007

I walk and walk, head down, looking at none of the people I pass, speaking to nobody. An endless network of suburban streets. It’s only when I get to the main road and see the Picture House and the Centre for Alternative Medicine in the distance that I realise I’m in Spilling.

In front of the Picture House, there’s a lamppost with a dustbin attached to it. It’s almost full, a lager can and the remains of a kebab at the top of the pile. I place the plastic bag on top of these and press the whole lot down. The syringe, the blood-soaked lilac dressing gown-I will never see them again.

I’m walking away when I remember the third item in the bag: the book with the black cover. Spanish. I stop. I ought to leave it where it is, I know I ought to, but I can’t. Looking round to check no one’s watching me, I go back to the bin. Someone is watching me: an old man sitting on a bench across the street. Staring. He isn’t going to move, or look away. I hesitate for a few seconds, then decide it doesn’t matter. Each small decision is a struggle. I pull the carrier bag out and rescue the book. Open it. There’s a letter inside that’s been written on a small lined sheet of paper, but it’s nothing interesting, only a note somebody has written to Encarnación Oliva, giving lots of details about when they plan to go away and when they’re getting back, dates and times, followed by something about Amy’s school that is too complicated for my brain at the moment. It’s addressed to ‘Dear Encarna’, but I don’t know who it’s from because it hasn’t been signed. Odd.

I tuck the letter inside the book, put the plastic bag back in the dustbin and start to walk home. It will take me half an hour. Longer, unless I walk faster. It’s hard-the soles of my feet are stinging so badly from standing on broken glass. I’ve got money in my purse, I could get a taxi. Why aren’t I desperate to get home as soon as I can? What’s wrong with me?

I stop walking. For a moment, I’m convinced I can’t do it. Nick. Home. I will have to say something. I cannot envisage speaking to anybody ever again. All I want is to disappear.

Zoe and Jake. I start moving again. I want my children. I walk faster and soon I don’t notice any more that my feet hurt. It will be okay. Everything will be like it used to be.

My street looks the same. Everything is the same, except me. Esther’s car is parked outside my house. All I have to do is take my keys out of my bag and let myself in.

My head starts to tilt and twist when I see Jake’s pink football in the hall. My breath catches in my throat. The ball is in the wrong place. I need everything to be where it belongs. Jake’s football should be in the cupboard in his bedroom. I pick it up, dropping the Spanish book at the same time. Now there are definitely too many things on the floor: a pink plastic doll’s dummy, a rolled-up copy of Private Eye. I can’t pick them up. Neither can I walk past them.

‘Sally? Sally, is that you?’ A woman’s voice. I look up, expecting to see Esther, but this woman is tall and thin with short brown hair. I’ve never seen her before. ‘It’s okay, Sally,’ she says. ‘You’re okay. I’m Sergeant Zailer. I’m a police officer.’

The word ‘police’ startles me. I take a step back. Everybody knows. Everybody knows what happened to me.

I open my mouth to tell the policewoman to leave. ‘I’m going to fall,’ I say. The wrong words. My legs buckle. The last thing I’m aware of seeing is the black cartoon animal face on Jake’s pink ball, right next to my eyes, enormous and terrifying.

Saturday, 11 August 2007

I open my eyes. This time I think I might be willing to keep them open for a while, see what happens. Everything appears to be in order. I’m still in my own bed. My favourite picture is still on the chimney breast in front of me. It’s a Thai folk painting, a present from a company I did a scoping study for in Bangkok. It’s painted on tree bark, and shows a chubby baby sitting cross-legged against an iridescent yellow background, holding a fish in its lap. Nick’s not keen on it-he says it’s too sickly-but I love it. The baby’s skin is plump and pink. The picture reminds me of my children as newborns.

‘Jake,’ I say. ‘Zoe?’ I haven’t seen them yet, haven’t heard them shouting and singing and demanding things. Then I remember the police were here. Did they send my children away?

I am about to call out again when I hear voices, a man’s and a woman’s. Not Nick. Not Esther. I blink several times as their conversation gets nearer, to check this is real. Their words make no sense to me.

‘He’s not with his family, not at home or at work, not at his mother-in-law’s…’

‘Simon, you’re not his babysitter. He’s a free, innocent man.’

Simon? Who is Simon?

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘You don’t… there’s nothing you’re not telling me, is there? He is innocent?’

I think the woman is the cop from… when was it that I arrived home? How long ago?

‘There’s a lot I’ve not told you,’ says the man called Simon. ‘There’s been no time.’

‘What’s wrong with now?’

She sounds tired. As if she can’t be bothered any more.

‘The French/English song. Stacey’s homework-’

‘Simon, for fuck’s sake! I want to know why four people have died, not-’

‘An Englishman wrote it. All the phrases in it-“rather a giggle”, “burst into song”, “put a sock in it”, “keep your shirt on”-they’re all English sayings. The French versions of them, translated literally, wouldn’t mean the same thing. They wouldn’t mean anything, they’d be gibberish. So the French version can’t be the original. I doubt “put a sock in it” in French means give it a rest, like it does here.’

‘I doubt “give it a rest” means give it a rest.’

I have no idea what they are talking about. My home has been invaded by people who make no sense.

‘Exactly,’ Simon agrees. ‘ “Give it a rest” would mean-’

‘Let it have a nice long sleep?’ The woman laughs. I hear clapping. ‘Full marks, Detective.’

So Simon is also a police officer.

‘Remember the promise you made?’

More sniggering from the woman. ‘Are you quoting Cock Robin?’

‘What?’

‘“The Promise You Made” by Cock Robin. It was in the charts in the eighties.’ She begins to sing. A policewoman is singing outside my bedroom door.

I burst into tears. I remember the song. I loved it. ‘I want my children!’ I yell.

The door to Nick’s and my bedroom is flung open and the woman walks in. Sergeant… I’ve forgotten what she said her name was.

‘Sally, you’re awake. How are you feeling?’

The man who follows her into the room-Simon-is tall and muscly, with a prominent jaw that reminds me of the cartoon character Desperate Dan and a nose that looks as if it’s been smashed to pieces more than once. He looks wary, as if he thinks I might leap out of bed and lunge at him.