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other’s currently being examined by a police doctor, prior to a full psychiatric examination,’ said Yeats. ‘Meanwhile there is no evidence of any break-in: no forced locks, no broken windows, no footprints, nothing. So excuse me if I don’t waste my time looking for people who don’t exist. Now, let’s get back to your story. What time did you arrive home?’
    I talked him through the sequence of events from the moment I got out of the car until the arrival of the police. When I finished the Chief Inspector said, ‘Thank you, Mr Crookham. I’ve just got two more questions.’
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘First, for the record, did you kill your brother, Andrew Crookham?’
    ‘No, I did not.’
    ‘And second, do you have any information that might help us to establish why your wife would have killed your brother?’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    The Chief Inspector spoke into the microphone to state that the interview was being terminated and gave the exact time before he switched the tape recorder off. Then he got up from his chair, paused before leaving the room and said, ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Crookham. I’m sorry for your loss.’
    Samira Khan and I were left alone in the room. She walked to the far wall, directly beneath the camera, then motioned me across to her.
    ‘They can’t see us here. The camera’s supposed to be switched off at the end of the interview, but you can’t be too careful. I just wanted to ask: that information you gave, about the site visit and the phone calls: it’ll hold up?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘You didn’t touch the knife?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then they’ve got nothing on you. You’ll be all right, I’ll make sure of that. It’s your wife you need to worry about.’

6
     
    Of course I didn’t sleep. How could I? Even if my mind hadn’t been picking away at the events of the past twenty-four hours like a fingernail attacking a scab, police procedures demand that suspects held in cells are checked every thirty minutes to make sure they’ve not tried to harm or even kill themselves. The officers don’t actually come into the cell. But the sound of a metal panel sliding back and forth across a hole in the door, and the sudden shaft of light from outside and the unsettling sense of being examined by an unseen eye are more than enough to stop anyone who isn’t obliterated by drink or drugs from getting any rest.
    So I lay on that hard slab of a bench with just a single rough blanket to cover me, trying to come to terms with what had happened. And this is where I have to make a confession. I know I ought to have been thinking about Andy. He was my brother and he was dead. I should have mourned him, grieved for him, run through scenes from our life like home movies in my head. But I didn’t. All I could think about was Mariana.
    I went right back to the day we met. At that point I’d been divorced from my first wife Stephanie for two years. Steph was nice, kind, sweet, modestly attractive, averagely unexciting: the perfect woman for the man I was then. She was a pharmacist. When we bought our first and only home she chose a nice little three-bedder in a new development because she preferred the cleanliness of a new build. We very rarely got angry with one another. When we split it was all very civilized. There were no children, no recriminations and the most depressing thing about it was my relief that the marriage was over.
    Still, I made a poor job of being a bachelor. I told everyone I was too busy with my career to have time for a new relationship, and that was half true. The practice was still in its infancy so I had to work all the hours God gave just to keep the whole thing moving forwards. But it was also a good excuse to avoid a repetition of the kind of relationship I’d had with Stephanie. We’d stopped being individuals and become Peter-and-Stephanie, the Crookhams. Pete’n’Steffi to our friends. I’d really had it with that.
    It was an unusually warm