‘Kit?’

‘Yes, I have a really strong feeling it’s him.’ She sighs. ‘Maybe I got it wrong about the insurance fraud, maybe you were right about the drugs debt. Did you speak to your detective?’

‘I’ve left him a message,’ I lie. ‘If it is Kit, then he’ll be busy at the scene.’

As Clare is distracted by a voice in the background, I try to regulate my breathing. With each inhalation, I feel a spike of pain in my chest. ‘Jamie? Someone’s just told me it’s a male body. Another knife attack, apparently, so the media’ll be all over it.’

‘Poor Kit – if it’s him.’

‘The police will drop you like a ton of bricks now, so there’s that, at least.’

‘Yes.’ And I feel a terrible jubilant skip of my heart.

‘Well, I just thought you’d want to know,’ she says, and her voice has turned cool as she remembers, perhaps, that she pledged her support only while I was under suspicion.

‘Thank you, Clare.’

We end the call with an equal measure of formality, almost as if we expect never to speak again.

‘Was that about your friend?’ Regan asks.

‘We’re not sure, but they’ve found a body by the river in St Mary’s.’ My senses are weirdly heightened: customers’ mumbles as intolerable to my ears as a bass drum, the buttery aroma of a new batch of cinnamon buns sickening.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she says kindly, and lays a hand on my arm. ‘It could be anyone. You said knife crime?’

‘Yes, that’s what Clare’s heard.’

‘Wow. The epidemic continues. I wonder who he had beef with.’

My eyes shine. Everything I see sharpens and then blurs. ‘I really can’t imagine.’

*

An hour passes and no further information reaches me. Little more has been reported online than what Clare’s already told us, the identity of the victim not yet released. It starts to rain pretty heavily and I picture the scene on the river path, the extra precautions the forensic team will have to take to stop the weather obliterating physical evidence. I wonder if it’s acceptable – or natural – to ring Merchison and ask outright if it’s Kit. Isn’t it stranger not to? I decide I’ll finish the rash of late-lunch food orders I’m preparing and then I’ll call.

I have my back to the counter as I plate up sandwiches for a table of Chinese students, when I sense a gathering on the shop floor, a change of mood. ‘Mr James Buckby?’

I turn. On the other side of the counter stand two uniformed officers. With a sideways look to the street, I spot a squad car a little way up, parked with its wheels turned as if in haste. This, I was not expecting. Melia and I have not predicted it or prepared for it, but now they’re here it seems reasonable enough that I should be notified in person – almost touching, actually. Parry and Merchison must have requested it as a courtesy, given the suspicion I was under, the time they spent grilling me.

Unless there are additional details they hope I can supply. I motion to Regan that she should complete the food orders so I can give the officers my full co-operation. They are both younger than me, a man and a woman, each fair-skinned and flushed, presumably from overheating themselves in their car. Raindrops spot their dark shoulders like fresh dew. I try to remember the face of the colleague at the Royal Festival Hall, the one I saw Parry talking to; I think it might be her.

‘This is about Kit, isn’t it? Christopher Roper?’ If I’ve learned anything in my dealings with the police, it’s to be as truthful as possible. Withhold, yes, but when you do speak, avoid lying. ‘My girlfriend phoned me earlier and said a body’s been found by the river. We were worried it might be him. It’s not, is it?’

I expect them to be discreet, to move me out of earshot, but they confirm the matter openly and at once. ‘His wife has just made the formal identification.’

Oh Melia, that can’t have been a pleasant job. What did he look like, his flesh drained of blood? Were his dreams – ill-spirited though they were – still visible in his eyes?

‘That’s awful. Poor Melia.’ Feeling my legs tremble, I plant my feet heavily and place a hand on the counter. Behind me Regan is cutting the sandwiches; I hear the light sawing, the chime of metal meeting plate. ‘How did it happen? My girlfriend said it was another stabbing, is that right? We were just saying, weren’t we, Regan? How worried we are about this knife-crime epidemic.’

Regan turns and nods energetically, honoured to be included in the drama.

‘We’re not in a position to share that information,’ the male officer says, as if I’m delaying them with idle gossip. Darting around me, Regan delivers the order to the table in the window and returns to stand at my shoulder.

‘Well, thank you for letting me know,’ I say. ‘I know we’re not family, but Clare and I were close to him. We’ll phone Melia and see if we can support her in any way. She and Clare are good friends.’ I’m pleased with my handling of the scene so far. I’m appropriately saddened but with a touch of relief in my posture: At least we know now. I have to say, now it’s unfolding it feels like genius. She’s a genius. Melia. My Melia.

‘Where were you on New Year’s Eve, Mr Buckby?’

Though the question has a level, just-out-of-interest tone to it, I’m taken aback to be asked it. ‘New Year’s Eve? I was at home all night with Clare. You’ve got her details, if you need to check with her.’ That’s the fourth time I’ve mentioned her in the space of a minute; didn’t I do the same with the detectives? Like she’s my talisman, my proof of integrity. I gulp at the thought of the misery I’ve caused her, while still I exploit her virtues for all they’re worth. ‘We watched TV and then we went to bed just before midnight.’

‘Just before midnight?’

‘Yes, we didn’t bother staying up. We’ve seen it all before. I leave the partying to Regan here.’

Regan is alone in chuckling at this.

‘And yesterday morning?’

‘Nothing much. Pottered about. Clare went for a walk in the afternoon, but otherwise neither of us left the house again until coming to work today. I was going to ring DC Merchison this afternoon, actually, because Clare and I have some information about a loan Kit recently took out. It might still be useful, even though . . .’ I trail off. Even though he’s dead. ‘I’ll email him, shall I? When I get home.’

‘What was the name again?’ The male officer’s eye contact is impersonal, almost robotic.

‘DC Merchison. The one who interviewed me when Kit went missing. He’s been my main point of contact since then. Based at the Woolwich station, I think he said.’

‘When was this interview? Yesterday?’

I frown. By my side, Regan shuffles. I hear her speak in hushed tones to new customers, asking them to wait. I think of theatre ushers shushing late arrivals. ‘No, last Friday. The twenty-seventh, wasn’t it?’

Like the date isn’t stamped onto the inside of my eyelids.

‘The twenty-seventh of December?’

I try to keep my patience, not wanting to irritate them, but really, this is sloppy. ‘Yes, just after he was reported missing. I was the last person to see him, they said, on Monday the twenty-third, on the late-night riverboat to St Mary’s. We had drinks with our commuter friends – you’ll have it all in your report.’