It’s early evening and the drone of a male voice, leaking through from the sitting room, tells me Richard is watching the evening news while I cook pasta. My neck and shoulders still hurt from the accident and I move round the kitchen with stiff robot arms, laboriously turning my whole upper body to reach for things, instead of bending naturally.

Then the doorbell rings. I go. I assume it’s that young offender who keeps trying to sell me tea towels and oven gloves or one of those charity workers who come door-to-door just when we’re about to eat and opens with cheesy lines like: ‘Do you care about sick children?’ If Richard goes, we’ll never sit down to dinner.

So I open the door with a scowl on my face, to find two police officers standing there, the same pair who interviewed me in hospital.

‘Ms Hicks?’ The female officer. Hatchet-faced. ‘May we come in?’

I hesitate for just a moment, wondering if I have a choice. I decide that, as Richard would say, non-compliance might not be in the best interests of the client.

They loom large in the sitting room, looking round, taking it all in. Richard jumps up to switch off the television and straightens the newspapers into a pile as if untidiness might be used in evidence.

‘Good evening.’ He goes into solicitor mode, all eager to please. ‘How can we help?’

The female officer sits down without being asked and turns to me. Her sidekick, the young Asian man, takes out a notebook and pencil.

‘Ms Hicks, we wondered if we could ask you a few more questions?’

I incline my head. In the kitchen, the pasta is no doubt turning to mulch but no isn’t really an option. ‘About the accident?’

‘Yes.’ She gives nothing away. ‘At the time of the accident, were you having a conversation on your mobile phone?’

No beating about the bush, just straight out with it.

I stall, feigning surprise: ‘Mobile phone?’

She isn’t fooled. ‘We’ve interviewed a witness who says she heard you. She says you sounded angry.’

‘Ah.’ I make a big show of remembering. ‘I was cross with Gracie. That must be it. She was being a monkey in the back and I told her off.’

The young man writes furiously in his notebook.

Her eyes are on mine. They narrow. ‘Just to clarify, you’re saying you didn’t take a phone call? Are you quite certain of that?’

I bite my lip a bit and try to look thoughtful. ‘I may have had a call earlier. Work stuff. But not then.’ I pause. ‘I’d have remembered.’

I’m a damn good liar. There are two vital ingredients. Consistency. In other words, stick to your story. And keep your cool.

Her eyes bore right through me and I see in an instant that we understand each other perfectly. She knows I’m lying and she knows I know she knows. The question is: what’s she going to do about it?

‘It’s a very serious matter, Ms Hicks.’ Her tone is dry. ‘A young woman is dead.’

I look pained. ‘I know. Awful. I can’t stop thinking about her.’

Richard, always a soft touch, reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

The police officer’s eyes are still on mine.

‘If necessary, would you testify to that effect?’ she says. ‘Under oath.’

I nod. ‘Of course. Anything.’

Richard shows them out. When he comes back, he puts his arm round me.

‘Alright?’

I don’t answer.

‘Thank God you weren’t on the phone,’ he says. ‘That could’ve been really serious. Imagine.’

The next day, Richard makes some calls and finds out that the inquest has already taken place. A verdict of accidental death. He seems puzzled. Why would the police come round and talk about testifying when the inquest is already over? I see at once. I know a warning when I see one. We know exactly what happened, Ms Hicks. Too late this time but watch your step.

So that’s it. I’m safe, after all. It wasn’t fear of punishment that kept me awake at night. It was fear that, if all this came out, Richard would discover who it was who called me. And why.