‘Can you take a look at this phone, please—’ She holds it out in a sealed plastic bag, ‘—and let me know whether you recognise it?’

‘Yes, it’s my phone.’ I resist the urge to chew my nails. The last few days have ground them down to battered stubs.

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Yes, I recognise the scratch on the casing.’

‘And your phone number is …’ She flips through her pad and then reads it out. I nod.

‘Yes, that’s c-correct.’

‘I’m interested in the last few calls and texts you made. Can you run me through what you can remember?’

I wasn’t expecting this. I can’t see what relevance it can possibly have to James’s death. Maybe they’re trying to corroborate our movements or something. I know they can triangulate locations from mobile phone signals.

I’m struggling to remember. ‘Not many. There wasn’t really any reception at the house. I checked my voicemail at the shooting range … and Twitter. Oh, and I returned a call from a bike shop in London, they’re servicing my bike. I think that’s it.’

‘No texts?’

‘I … I don’t think so.’ I’m trying to remember. ‘No, I’m pretty sure not. I think the last one I sent was to Nina, telling her I was waiting on the train. That was Friday.’

She changes tack smoothly.

‘I’d like to ask you a bit more about your relationship with James Cooper.’

I nod, trying to keep my expression even, helpful. But I’ve been expecting this. Maybe Clare has woken up. My stomach does a little uneasy shift.

‘You met back at school, is that right?’

‘Yes. We were about fifteen, sixteen. We dated, briefly, and then we broke up.’

‘How briefly?’

‘Four or five months?’

That’s not quite true. We were together for six months. But I’ve already said ‘briefly’, and six months doesn’t sound that brief. I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting myself already. Luckily Lamarr doesn’t quiz me about the dates.

‘Did you keep in contact after that?’ she says.

‘No.’

She waits for me to elaborate. I wait. Lamarr folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping quiet. The pause hangs, heavy in the air. I can hear the tiny percussive tick of her expensive watch, and I wonder briefly where she gets her money from: that skirt wasn’t bought on a police officer’s salary, neither were the chunky gold earrings. They look real.

Still, it’s none of my business. Just something to speculate on as the time ticks past.

But Lamarr can wait too. She has a kind of feline patience, that quality of unblinking composure as she waits for the mouse to panic and make a bolt for it. In the end, it’s her companion who cracks. DC Roberts, a big hulk of a man with a fleshy face that seems set in a permanent frown. ‘You’re telling us you’ve had no contact with him for ten years,’ he says brusquely, ‘and yet he invited you to his wedding?’

Fuck. But there’s no point in lying about this. It would take them two minutes to check with Clare’s mother or whoever handled the guest list. ‘No. Clare invited me to the hen, but I’m not coming to the wedding.’

‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Lamarr comes back in. She’s smiling, as if this is girl-talk over a cappuccino. Her cheeks are round and rosy, with high cheekbones that make her look like Nefertiti, and her mouth as she smiles is wide and warm and generous.

‘Not really,’ I lie. ‘I’m James’s ex. I imagine Clare thought it would be awkward – for me as much as her.’

‘So why invite you to the hen – to celebrate her wedding? Wouldn’t that be awkward too?’

‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Clare.’

‘So you’ve had no contact with James Cooper at all since you broke up?’

‘No. No contact.’

‘Texts? Emails?’

‘No. None.’

I’m suddenly not sure where this is going. Are they trying to establish that I hated James? That I couldn’t bear to have him near me? My stomach does another uneasy shift and a little voice in my head whispers, It’s not too late to ask for a lawyer…

‘Look,’ I find myself saying, stress making my voice rise half a tone, ‘it’s hardly unusual not to keep in touch with your exes.’

But Lamarr doesn’t answer. She switches track again, bewilderingly. ‘Can you run me through your movements at the house? Were there any times you left the property?’

‘Well, we went clay-pigeon shooting,’ I say uncertainly. ‘But you know about that.’

‘I mean by yourself. You went for a run, isn’t that right?’

A run? I feel completely out of my depth all of a sudden. I hate not knowing what they’re getting at.

‘Yes,’ I say. I pick up a pillow and hug it to my chest. And then, feeling that I should look co-operative, ‘Twice. Once when we arrived, on Friday, and once on Saturday.’

‘Can you give me the approximate times?’

I try to think back. ‘I think the Friday one was about four-thirty maybe? Perhaps a bit later. I remember it was fairly dark. I met Clare on the drive on the way back, about six o’clock. And the Saturday one … it was early. Before eight, I think. I can’t pin it down much better than that. Definitely not earlier than six a.m. – it was light. Melanie was up – she might remember.’

‘OK.’ Lamarr is writing down the times, not trusting to the tape. ‘And you didn’t use your phone on the runs?’

‘No.’ What the hell is this about? My fingers dig into the soft kapok of the pillow.

‘What about Saturday night, did you go out then?’

‘No.’ Then I remember something. ‘Did they tell you about the footprints?’

‘Footprints?’ She looks up from her pad, her face puzzled. ‘What footprints?’

‘There were footprints, in the snow. When I came back from my run that first morning. They were leading from the garage to the back door.’

‘Hm. I’ll look into it. Thanks.’ She makes a note. Then she changes tack again. ‘Have you remembered anything further about the period after you left the house on Saturday night? When you chased after the car?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I remember tearing down through the wood … I get flashes of cars and broken glass and stuff … but no, nothing really concrete.’

‘I see.’ She shuts her notebook and stands up. ‘Thank you, Nora. Any further questions, Roberts?’

Her companion shakes his head, and then Lamarr gives the time and location for the tape, clicks off the recording and leaves.

I am a suspect.

I sit there trying to process it after they’ve gone.

Is it because they’ve found my phone? But what could my phone possibly have to do with James’s murder?

And then I realise something, something I should have known before.

I was always a suspect.

The only reason they weren’t interviewing me under caution before was because any interview was worthless as evidence. With my memory problems, any lawyer could have shot a hole a mile wide in my statement. They wanted intelligence – the information I could provide – and they wanted it quick, enough to risk talking to me when I was in no state to be relied on.

But now the doctors have confirmed I’m lucid, and I’m well enough to be interviewed properly. Now they are starting to build a case.

I haven’t been arrested. That’s one thing to hold on to.

I haven’t been charged. Yet.

If only I could remember those missing few minutes in the wood. What happened? What did I do?

The desperation to remember rises inside me, sticking in my throat like a sob, and I clench my fingers on the soft pillow, and bury my face in its clean whiteness and I ache to remember. Without those missing few minutes, how can I hope to convince Lamarr that what I’m saying is true?