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your answer options in silence, in the privacy of your own head. Not out loud to me.’
    In the privacy of your own head
. It was because of the things she said. Not that he’d ever tell her that.
    He took her glass from her hand and put it down on the table. ‘Say yes,’ he said. ‘It’s easy.’

3
Saturday 17 July 2010
    â€˜Why did you want to speak to Simon Waterhouse?’ the detective called Sam asks. His surname is something long and unusual beginning with a K – he spelled it for me when he introduced himself. I didn’t take it in, and didn’t feel I could ask again. He’s tall, good-looking, with black hair and a dark complexion. He’s wearing a black suit and a white shirt with thin lilac stitched stripes, like perforated lines. No tie. I can’t stop looking at his Adam’s apple. It looks sharp enough to break skin. I imagine it slicing through his neck, an arc of blood spurting out. I shake my head to banish the morbid fantasy.
    Does he want me to tell him again? ‘I saw a woman lying face down—’
    â€˜You misunderstand me,’ he interrupts, smiling to show that he doesn’t mean to be rude. ‘I meant why Simon Waterhouse in particular?’
    Kit is in the kitchen making tea for us all. I’m glad. I’d find it harder to answer the question with him listening. If I didn’t feel so horrible, this might be funny, like a weird sort of pantomime:
The Policeman Who Came to Tea
. It’s only half past eight; we ought to be offering him breakfast. It’s good of him to come so early. Maybe Kit will bring some croissants in with the drinks. If he doesn’t, I won’t offer. I can’t think about anything apart from the dead woman. Who is she?Does anybody know or care that she’s been murdered, apart from me?
    â€˜I’ve been seeing a homeopath for the past six months. I’ve got a couple of minor health problems, nothing serious.’ Was there any need to tell him that? I stop short of adding that the problems relate to my emotional health, and that my homeopath is also a counsellor. My desire to evade the truth makes me angry – with myself, Kit, Sam K, everyone. There’s nothing shameful about needing to talk to somebody.
    Then why are you ashamed?
    â€˜Alice – that’s my homeopath – she suggested I talk to Simon Waterhouse. She said…’
Don’t say it. You’ll prejudice him against you
.
    â€˜Go on.’ Sam K is doing his very best to look kind and unthreatening.
    I decide to reward his efforts with an honest answer. ‘She said he was like no other policeman. She said he’d believe the unbelievable, if it was true. And it
is
true. I saw a dead woman in that room. I don’t know why it…why she wasn’t there any more by the time Kit went and looked. I can’t explain it, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation. There must be one.’
    Sam K nods. His face is unreadable. Maybe he makes a point of encouraging mad people. If he thinks I’m mad, I wish he’d say it straight out:
You’re a nutter, Mrs Bowskill
. I told him to call me Connie, but I don’t think he wants to. Since I said it, he hasn’t called me anything.
    â€˜Where is Simon?’ I ask. When I rang his mobile last night, his recorded voice told me that he was unavailable – not for how long, or why – and gave a number to ring in an emergency: Sam K’s number, as it turned out.
    â€˜He’s on his honeymoon.’
    â€˜Oh.’ He didn’t tell me he was getting married. No reason why he would, I suppose. ‘When will he be back?’
    â€˜He’s gone for a fortnight.’
    â€˜I’m sorry I rang you at 2 a.m.,’ I say. ‘I should have waited till the morning, but…Kit had gone back to sleep, and I couldn’t just do nothing. I had to tell someone what I’d seen.’
    A