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because it’s so cold. I can’t feel my fingers, which makes it hard to hold the pencil. When the point gets worn down, I scrape the lead gently across the bricks to sharpen it.
    Writing keeps me sane, but Tash didn’t have anything like that.
    She was getting sicker and sicker. Not eating. Chewing her nails until they bled.
    That’s why she had to get out.

4
     
    A ugie Shaw is sitting at a table, propped forward on his elbows, staring at himself in the mirror. He can’t see me behind his reflection yet he seems to be gazing directly into my eyes.
    Mirrors have an interesting effect in interview rooms. People struggle to lie when they can see themselves doing it. They become more self-conscious as they try to sound more convincing and truthful.
    Augie is up now, pacing, talking to himself using gestures and grimaces as though conducting an internal dialogue. Taller than I imagined, he walks with an odd-legged shuffle, his hair falling over one eye.
    Pausing at the mirror, he leans towards it, arching his eyebrows and lowering them. He has large eyes and a broad forehead, handsome features on most men. His hands are wrapped in white gauze and he’s wearing a blue paper boiler suit.
    “Where are his clothes?” I ask.
    “We’ve taken them for analysis,” says Drury.
    Augie presses his hands together and closes his eyes as if praying.
    “He’s religious,” says Drury. “Goes to a Pentecostal church in town—one of those happy clappy places.”
    “I take it you’re not a believer.”
    “I’m all in favor of redemption. It’s the lemming-like leaps of faith that worry me.”
    Opening the door, I step inside. Augie’s eyes skitter from the walls to the floor, but never to me. There is a smell about him. Sweat. Talcum.
    I take a seat and ask Augie to sit down. He looks at the chair suspiciously and then folds himself down into it, with his knees facing sideways towards the door.
    “My name is Joe. I’m a clinical psychologist. Have you talked to someone like me before?”
    “I see Dr. Victoria.”
    “Why is that?”
    He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”
    “I’m not suggesting you did.”
    “Why are you staring at me? You think I’ve done something wrong. You’re going to blame me. That’s why you brought me here.”
    “Relax, Augie, I just want to talk.”
    “You’re going to kill me or electrocute me.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “They do that in some countries.”
    “We don’t have the death penalty in Britain, Augie.”
    He nods, running his hands down his hair, flattening his fringe.
    “How are you feeling?” I ask.
    “My hands hurt.”
    “Do you need painkillers?”
    “The doctor gave me some pills.”
    “How did you burn them?”
    “There was a fire.”
    I don’t ask him about how it started. Instead, I focus on getting a history. He lives with his mother in Bingham. He was born in the area, left school at sixteen and has since done odd jobs as a laborer or farmhand. The Heymans hired him to cut wood and mow their lawns. He repaired some of their fences.
    “Why did you stop working for them?”
    Augie fidgets, scratching at the gauze on his hands. Minutes pass. I try again.
    “You were sacked. What happened?”
    “Ask Mrs. H.”
    “How can I do that, Augie? Mrs. Heyman is dead. The police think you killed her.”
    “No, no.”
    “That’s why you’re here.”
    He blinks at me. “She’s with God. I’m going to pray for her.”
    “Do you pray a lot?”
    “Every day.”
    “What do you ask God for?”
    “Forgiveness.”
    “Why do you need to be forgiven?”
    “Not for me—for the sinners.”
    “Why were you at the farmhouse?”
    “Mrs. H told me to come.”
    “Did she call you?”
    “Yes.”
    “The phone lines were down, Augie. There was a terrible storm. How did she call you?”
    “She told me to come.”
    “When did she call you?”
    “The day before.”
    He makes it sound so obvious.
    I take him over the details. He borrowed his mother’s car and