There’s a short, sweet moment when I think I’ve swayed it and they’re going to say, Fine, off you go, our apologies for the overreaction. But they don’t. Maybe they’re remembering Melia’s face, distraught at the thought of her new husband injured or abducted or worse. She’s so appealing, even in red-eyed, nose-running distress; so persuasive.

She’s obviously persuaded you, Jamie, Clare said, not long ago.

‘If you don’t mind filling in a few more gaps for us,’ Merchison says. ‘Would it help if we had a word on the phone with your manager?’

‘Or perhaps it’s best we head to the station, after all,’ Parry says. He flicks Merchison a dismayed look and I know I’m right about them bending the rules talking to me unofficially like this. It’s probably not even legal. But the last thing I want is for my words to be recorded and run through some lie-detection system (is that even a thing?). Or for a medical examination to expose the ugly bruises on my collarbone, safely hidden by the high neck of my sweatshirt, evidence of the true viciousness of that grapple with Kit. ‘No, please.’ I huddle inside my jacket, fold my fingers inside the cuffs for warmth. ‘Whatever you need. I just need to keep work informed.’

‘Thank you, James,’ Merchison says, ‘we appreciate your co-operation.’

‘Jamie. No one calls me James.’

And no one calls Kit Christopher. The police’s use of our full names only emphasizes the fact that they don’t know anything about us, about this.

‘Jamie. So how about we make this easy and start at the beginning. You tell us everything there is to know about Mr Roper.’

Sweet Jesus. They of all people must know that ‘everything there is to know’ is never as simple as it sounds. As a seagull squawks overhead, I nod my consent.

‘How long have you known each other?’

‘Almost a year,’ I say. ‘We met at the end of January.’

‘January this year?’ They both look up, surprised. ‘Not that long, then.’

‘No.’ And it’s true, it’s no time at all.

On the other hand, it feels like the longest year of my life.

3

January 2019

Before I start, I should like to point out that it wasn’t me who got us tangled up with the Ropers, but Clare. The woman who is now their fiercest critic was also their discoverer and erstwhile champion. For a while there, she thought they were the bee’s knees – both of them.

Melia came first. Whatever complications arose later, there is one thing I have no doubt about: the collision of our two worlds was pure chance. Of all the estate agents in all the towns in all the world, she walks into Clare’s.

Clare mentioned her on one of her first days back at work in January. ‘I had lunch with that new girl who started last month. Melia, she’s called. It turns out she lives near here.’

‘Girl?’

‘Well, she’s in her late twenties. Possibly thirty. I honestly don’t know.’

Hurtling towards fifty as we were, we found it hard to judge younger adults’ ages. They all looked like sixth formers to us.

‘Anyway, she’s the new junior Richard hired. To work with the re-lo consultants? She’s fitting in really well, he’s getting fantastic feedback about her.’

The relocation from overseas of corporate high flyers and their families was a healthy slice of the lettings business and I knew from Clare’s stories that some clients could be hard to please. ‘So she’s gorgeous, I take it?’

‘That sort of remark gets reported to HR, these days.’ Clare’s mouth curled. One of our shared convictions was a loathing of extreme political correctness. ‘If you ever hear me use the word “woke”, shoot me,’ she liked to say, and I’d reply, ‘What, even in the context of, “My devoted partner woke me up with a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich”?’ (Oh, the banter.)

‘Very gorgeous, yes, ’ she added. ‘Dark hair in a bob, lovely eyes, a kind of tawny colour. Her skin is off-the-scale elastic.’

I chuckled. ‘How can you possibly know that? What scale measures skin elasticity, anyway?’

‘The human eye, Jamie, the human eye.’ Clare plucked the back of her hand with an expression of fascinated disgust. ‘All I know is it doesn’t pleat like this, so it must have plenty of natural elastin. Or is it collagen?’ She was, lately, a proud discusser of menopausal symptoms, referring openly to decreasing oestrogen levels and the shutting down of wombs. I’d learned not to show how revolted I was by such talk. In any case, Clare still looked all right to me. She was tall and slim (-ish, but I was hardly rocking a six-pack myself) with blonde hair swept from her face for work but worn fringed and punky off-duty, kind of Debbie Harry circa ‘Heart of Glass’. A well-raised girl from Edinburgh, she’d been the beneficiary of an excellent state education, followed by university in London, where she’d stayed on account of a boyfriend, who exited the scene soon after. By the time, in her late thirties, she’d met yours truly at a Christmas party, her career in property sales had led naturally and lucratively to the establishment of her business with Richard. (It had helped to be free of any derailment wrought by motherhood, which by the way was a question of personal choice, not any biological malfunction or enforced preference by her current mate.)

‘So what did you and Melia the Millennial talk about, besides work?’

‘Loads of stuff. Life, family, our relationships. Oh, I told her about the career coaching and she thinks it’s an inspired gift.’

Because she has no idea what it signals, I thought. The clearly very costly Christmas present to me of a course of sessions with some guru or other marked the end of Clare’s tolerance of my non-career. While she didn’t deny that my prospects were threatened by ageism – how many of her own hires were over thirty, let alone late forties? – the gift had come just weeks after a renewed campaign for me to set myself up as a freelancer. ‘I am a freelancer,’ I’d told her. ‘A freelance café assistant.’

‘Eight one-on-one consultations, wow,’ I said, on receipt of the gift voucher. I would strongly have preferred a new shirt. ‘“Dream job. Real results”. That’s my New Year’s resolution taken care of, then. In 2019, I will finally find a way to work with white tigers.’

Clare smiled. ‘You joke, but maybe you’ll surprise yourself with what you decide to do next.’

Maybe I would. ‘What about you? Any resolutions?’ ‘Actually, I do have one,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to embrace the new. I read that’s the key to ageing successfully.’

‘I think all ageing is unsuccessful, ultimately,’ I said, grinning. ‘New what, exactly?’

‘New everything. New hobbies, new ideas, new friends.’ She grew emphatic as she searched for the right phrase and I saw she was very determined about this: ‘I’m open to submissions.’

Enter Melia, and, a step or two behind her, Kit, with their winning submission of youth, fun, freedom. Everything Clare feared she was losing.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is this whole thing began with exactly the midlife crisis you might imagine – just not mine.