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clutched at Julie’s arm.
    ‘Can … can I come with her?’ Julie asked.
    ‘That’s up to Mrs Frobisher.’
    Susan nodded, biting her cheek, fighting to keep the tears out of her eyes.
    How long does it take to change a life entirely?
    A little over three seconds was the answer. The amount of time it took Sergeant Black to say the words, ‘I’m afraid we think your husband is dead.’
    Susan burst into tears.
    They were in the theatre manager’s office, windowless. Two desks, two chairs. The walls covered with posters for past productions by the Wroxham Players. Susan was sitting on one of the chairs, a black faux-leather swivel job, with Julie standing beside her, holding her hand, Sergeant Black towering over them. The young constable, Julie noticed, hovered in the background, going extremely red in the face. Was this the first time he’d done something like this? ‘Oh God … oh no …’ Susan sobbed. Then, catching herself, finding something to cling onto, she said, ‘You
think
?’
    ‘You’re married to Mr Barry Frobisher?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Of 1B Wellington Street, Wroxham?’
    ‘No!’ Oh thank God. Thank God. They had the wrong man. ‘We live in a house. 23 Beecham Crescent.’
    The two policemen exchanged a look. Susan and Julie stared at them. ‘Excuse me a moment please, ladies,’ the sergeant said. He left the room, taking out his radio as he went. As the door closed behind him they heard the squawk and hiss and Black saying, ‘Control?’
    ‘So … what … what’s happening?’ Susan asked, wiping tears. ‘Is it my husband?’ They looked at the young constable, who, in turn, was looking like his head might explode.
    ‘I … think … we’d best wait for the sergeant …’
    Silence. Susan looked at Julie. Julie looked at the constable. The constable scanned the posters on the walls. ‘Oh look,’ he said after a moment. ‘
The Pirates of Penzance
. My auntie was in that.’
    Before Julie could ask what the fuck that had to do with anything the door was opening again and Sergeant Black was coming back in. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Frobisher, but there does seem to be some confusion. I’ve been told to ask you to accompany me to the scene, to provide a positive ID. Or otherwise.’
    ‘The scene?’ Susan repeated.
    ‘The crime scene.’
    ‘Right,’ Julie said. ‘What on earth is going on?’
    ‘I really think it’d be best if you just came with us, ladies …’

NINE
    SUSAN HAD NEVER been in a police car before. (Julie had. A long story – one unknown to Susan.) She was surprised by how much stuff seemed to be crammed into the front of it. How much technology: computers and radios and equipment and whatnot. And the constant chatter of the radio – could all this really be going on in Wroxham? Sleepy Wroxham with its Victorian marketplace and its corn exchange and its carpet factory? She was aware of Julie holding her hand as she looked at the orange street lights passing without saying a word, her other trembling hand clamped over her brow. What had happened? Nothing? Was it the wrong man? Or an accident? Or an attack? And ‘attack’ was starting to loom larger in her mind now, as they came off the dual carriageway and started heading into the Mansfield Estate, one of the rougher parts of town. But, at the same time, some cause for optimism: what the hell would Barry have been doing around here? He had a few rough clients, down at the accountancy firm. A few local characters who Susan suspected skirted the fringes of the HMRC’s approved practices, but no real
criminals
surely? God, she felt sick.
    Julie watched her friend out of the corner of her eye and tried to stay calm and practical, tried to play the next few moves out in her head.
    Suppose they’re right and Barry’s dead? What would happen then? Susan would go into shock. She’d be a wreck. I’d have to take her home and spend the night with her. Maybe even the next few nights. When would Tom get here? Who would