What will happen to me? I say when I’m done.

It really depends on whether they go down the time-wasting route or the perverting-the-course-of-justice route, he says. If it’s the former, and you plead guilty, you could be looking at community service or a suspended sentence. If it’s the latter—well, there’s no limit on the sentence a judge can impose. The maximum’s life imprisonment. Obviously, that’s only for very extreme cases. But I should warn you, it’s a crime judges do tend to take seriously.

I start to cry again. Graham delves into his briefcase and finds a pack of travel tissues. The gesture makes me think of Carol, which in turn reminds me of another problem.

They won’t be able to question my therapist, will they? I say.

What sort of therapist are we talking about?

I started seeing a psychotherapist after I was burgled. It was the police who suggested her.

And you’ve told this therapist the truth?

No, I say miserably.

I see, he says, although he’s plainly baffled. Well, as long as we don’t introduce state of mind, there’s no reason for them to involve her.

He’s silent a moment. Which does rather bring us to what our defense is going to be. Or rather, our mitigation. I mean, you’ve already told the police what happened. But you haven’t really said why.

What do you mean?

Context is everything in RASSOs—Rape and Serious Sexual Offenses. And because these charges originated with an allegation of rape, they’ll continue to be handled under RASSO regulations. Sometimes I’ve acted for women who’ve felt pressured or bullied into making or withdrawing an allegation, for example. That helps a lot.

That didn’t— I begin, then stop. You mean, being frightened of someone might get me off?

Not completely. But it might dramatically reduce the sentence.

But I was frightened, I say. I was frightened of telling Simon. He’s violent sometimes.

Right, Graham says. He doesn’t say Now we’re in business, but that’s his body language as he flips open a yellow pad and prepares to make notes. What sort of violence?

NOW: JANE

“DI Clarke?”

The man in the brown windbreaker nursing half a pint of beer looks up. “That’s me. Although I’m not a DI anymore. Just plain Mister. James, if you prefer.” He stands up to shake my hand. At his feet is a grocery bag full of fruit and vegetables. He gestures at the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll get myself one. It’s good of you to meet me.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I come into town anyway on a Wednesday, for the market.”

I get myself a ginger ale and go back to join him. I’m amazed by how easy it is to track people down these days. A phone call to Scotland Yard had established that Detective Inspector Clarke had retired, which felt like a setback, but simply typing “How do I find a retired police officer?” into a search engine—not Housekeeper, of course—had thrown up an organization called NARPO, the National Association of Retired Police Officers. There was a contact form, so I sent them my request. A reply came back the same day. They couldn’t give out members’ details, but they’d forward my question on.

The man sitting opposite me doesn’t look old enough to be retired. He must guess what I’m thinking because he says, “I was twenty-five years in the police game. Long enough to take my pension, but I haven’t stopped work completely. Me and another ex-detective have a little business installing security alarms. Nothing too pressured, but it’s tidy money. You want to talk about Emma Matthews, I understand?”

I nod. “Please.”

“Are you a relative?”

He’s clearly noted the resemblance. “Not exactly. I’m the current tenant at One Folgate Street.”

“Hmm.” At first glance James Clarke seems like a solid, ordinary bloke, the kind of workingman-made-comfortable who might own a small villa in Portugal beside a golf course. But now I see that his eyes are shrewd and confident. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“I know Emma made some sort of allegation against her former boyfriend, Simon. Not long afterward, she was dead. I’ve heard conflicting explanations as to who or what killed her—depression, Simon, even the man she went on to have a relationship with.” I deliberately don’t mention Edward’s name, in case Clarke picks up on my interest in him. “I’m just trying to shed some light on what happened. Living there, it’s hard not to be curious.”

“Emma Matthews pulled the wool over my eyes,” DI Clarke says flatly. “That didn’t happen to me often as a detective. Almost never, in fact. But there I was, faced with this plausible young woman who said she’d been too scared to report a really unpleasant sexual attack, because the attacker had filmed it on her phone and threatened to send it to all her contacts. I wanted to do something for her. Plus we were under pressure at the time to get rape convictions up. I thought with the evidence we had, for once I’d actually be able to please my bosses, get justice for a victim, and put a nasty piece of trash called Deon Nelson away for a long time into the bargain. Triple whammy. Turned out I was wrong on all three counts. She’d told us a pack of lies from the start.”

“She was a good liar, then?”