The process of giving the statement was long and it was boring, but I noticed gradually that it lacked the hostility of my earlier interviews. A junior detective of about my own age took the statement, and he was so ill-briefed that I had to prompt some of his questions. I knew my part so well now. I was numbed by it, but he was clearly excited to be involved. When there was really nothing more to be said, he left me alone once more. After a few minutes the interview-room door opened and Kamsky came in. I saw a new brightness in his eyes as he sat down opposite me. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘Just knackered,’ I said.

‘You can leave now,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go back to the house. Have you got somewhere you can stay?’

‘Yes – my friend Saul, remember? But – ’

‘You’ll need to keep us informed of your whereabouts,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you done?’

‘Not entirely,’ he said, and then his face broke into a smile. ‘We have found evidence – blood, hair, trophies taken from the dead women. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’re about to call a press conference at which we’ll announce that we’re charging Miles Rowland Thornton with the murders of Margaret Farrell, Ingrid de Soto and Leah Peterson.’

At which point I thought two things more or less simultaneously. I thought: No, oh, no, please, no. And I thought: He never told me he was called Rowland. I didn’t know I was crying until Kamsky pressed a tissue into my hand. Because, in spite of everything, Miles was my friend.

‘Tell me about it,’ I said at last. ‘Tell me everything.’

As Kamsky kept saying, evidence was evidence. Motives might be incomprehensible, explanations hard to find, but the fact was that they had evidence that tied Miles to the deaths of Margaret Farrell, Ingrid de Soto and Leah Peterson.

‘No,’ I said. ‘How? All three?’

‘All three.’

‘What?’

‘A murder weapon for one. And bodily samples for another,’ he said, with grotesque delicacy. ‘Tissue and hair from Margaret Farrell, if you want me to be precise. Don’t you see? It’s perfect.’ He was actually smiling. ‘It solves the problem of Margaret Farrell’s body. Her body was kept in Mr Thornton’s room. She may have been killed there. What is certain is that her body was kept there, then dumped later at the site where it was found. What’s more, there were also objects hidden in his room. Trophies, we assume.’

‘Trophies? Like what?’

‘You’ll hear soon enough.’

‘I just don’t get it. Why? I mean, I can understand Leah. Not understand-understand, but grasp it. He knew her. He was her lover. But the others. Peggy, for God’s sake, he hardly knew her. She was just a harmless woman who lived down the road.’

At this Kamsky gave a knowing smile. ‘He killed her, though. In his own room.’

‘And what about Ingrid de Soto? There’s no possible connection.’

‘There was an invitation from Mrs de Soto in Mr Thornton’s possession.’

‘What?’ I stared at Kamsky for a moment. Then I remembered Andrew de Soto in the hotel, his wretched, creased face. ‘Her husband thought she was having an affair,’ I said slowly. ‘You mean, she was having an affair with Miles?’

‘We don’t know about that yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve only just started.’

I wanted to say that Miles wouldn’t have had an affair with someone like Ingrid de Soto, but what did I know? Nothing had ever been the way it seemed.

‘I feel a bit sick,’ I said.

‘I can imagine.’

‘I don’t think you can, actually.’

‘All I can say, Astrid, is that you may never understand. Sometimes questions don’t have answers.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘You should go home now.’

‘You’re forgetting. I don’t have one any more.’

Chapter Twenty-four

I think none of us really wanted to leave and go our separate ways, because that would be the end. We’d be scattered, blown in different directions, like the seeds of a dandelion clock. After we’d met outside the station, after the fragmented explanations, the arguments, the disbelief, the tears, the hugs, we walked slowly down the street, me pushing Campbell ’s crappy bike, and stopped at the first pub we came to. It was dark and hot inside, with music playing too loudly. The men squeezed round a table near the window while Pippa and I went to get drinks. I felt as though I was moving under water, sluggish with tiredness and shock. As we were watching the man behind the bar pulling pints, another horrible thought came into my mind and I did something I never do, which is to ask someone about their sex life: ‘Did you ever sleep with him?’

‘Who?’

‘Miles.’

‘Once. Twice, maybe.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Pippa.’

‘It was after you’d finished with him, if that’s what you’re wondering, but before Leah. I wanted to cheer him up, comfort him.’

‘So you slept with him. You couldn’t just buy him a drink, have a chat?’

‘It was a way of holding him through the dark hours, I suppose. So, I’ve slept with a murderer. That’s a first.’

‘Not the most lovable thing you’ve ever said.’

‘Sorry.’ Then she looked at me. ‘He adored you. Maybe he went mad because of it. People do, you know. He’s sick in the head.’

‘What is it with you, Pippa? Is it an animal thing, like spraying on your territory?’

The barman interrupted us. ‘Excuse me. That’ll be ten pounds thirty, ladies.’

‘Here.’ I pulled the money out of my purse and slid it across.

‘Why did you never say?’ I asked Pippa, after collecting the change.

‘I just did.’

I started to say something, then gave up. What was the point? The world was full of secrets, each of us hiding our real self from everybody else, even those we called friends.

I managed to pick up three of the pints and walked across to the table where the others were sitting.

‘Cheers,’ I said, raising a glass. ‘Here’s to… well, what? What are we drinking to?’

‘Friendship,’ said Davy, with no trace of irony in his voice.

Pippa spluttered.

‘No, I’m serious,’ said Davy. ‘This has been shocking, more for Astrid and Pippa than the rest of us, I know, but we’re left, aren’t we? The six of us.’

‘At least we know we can trust each other,’ added Pippa, with another snort. Davy frowned at her. I gave her a disbelieving look too.

‘Cheers, anyway,’ he said and lifted his glass.

‘Yeah,’ said Dario.

So we toasted each other. I took a cautious sip. I didn’t need alcohol: the world was already unsteady around me. Nothing real or solid.

What was happening to Miles now? Was he still in the police station, with his solicitor, maybe? Were they questioning him at this very moment, capturing his words on a tape-recorder? Or was he sitting alone in a cell? Did his parents know yet? I’d met his mother several times and his father once, but my imagination balked when I tried to picture them hearing that their clever son was accused of murder. I heard Owen saying my name, but all I could see were images: Ingrid’s slashed face; Leah’s; Miles’s soft brown eyes looking into mine.

‘Don’t cry,’ said Davy. ‘You never cry.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Astrid?’ Owen said. ‘It’s OK. Cry if you want.’

And in front of everyone, he put his hand over mine and lifted it to his lips.

‘Hey! What’s going on?’ Dario’s eyes were bulging.

‘Shut up,’ said Owen.

But I leaned across the table, took Owen’s thin face between my hands and kissed him full on the lips. ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

Of course, it wasn’t all right, but the drink started to take hold and we ordered more and, in a slightly hysterical way, started to talk about old times and even to laugh a bit. It was mostly a performance but it helped us get through the evening until it was time for us to part. Just as we were starting to shift in our seats and nod our goodbyes, I remembered something. I took the cash out of my pocket.