‘Like Jesus and Judas,’ I reply.
He laughs like I’ve said something genuinely funny. ‘Touché.’
‘What does your wife do?’
‘She doesn’t. She used to be a social worker but had to stop when she had children.’
‘That’s a difficult job,’ I reply carefully.
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Does she miss it?’ Is there a subtext here? Am I being probed, delicately, for fault lines?
‘A little. She wanted to make a difference but there were times when a case kept her awake at night, shook her so badly that she could barely even talk to me. It got easier as she became more experienced and better at detaching herself emotionally, but you know, that wasn’t ideal either. She’s a lovely person and what she saw … well, it can be hard to wash out. It’s like a stain on your psyche.’
‘Poor woman. She’s lucky to have you.’
‘No, I’m lucky to have her.’ He opens his mouth to say something else and apparently changes his mind.
I fill the gap. ‘So who is this guy I’m going to look at?’
‘He was caught last night breaking and entering a house about two miles from yours and the earlier burglary. Similar kind of set-up and same point of entry. Broad daylight.’ He looks up at the mirror again, straight into my eyes. ‘He doesn’t match your description, to be honest, but I thought it was worth a shot.’
I don’t blink. ‘Of course it is.’
We’re finally through the traffic lights and the road ahead gives us a clear run to the police station. The WPC swings the car into a narrow lane that leads to a car park at the back, and slots us between an unmarked car and a motorbike. We get out and Grayling leads me through the back door, along a corridor with grey walls and a squeaky lino floor, and into an empty waiting room.
‘Where’s Amber?’ I ask, turning to confront him. ‘I thought she’d be here.’
‘She’ll have gone in already, I expect. Can I get someone to bring you a cup of tea?’
‘No thank you.’
Rows of blue chairs line three of the walls and above them posters warn helpfully of the perils we might come across in our daily lives. I mentally sort them into alphabetical order: Abuse. Burglary. Car theft. Drugs.
I had fully expected to go in with Amber and I can’t help wondering if he’s done this on purpose, if it suits him better this way. I had imagined us scrutinizing the suspects together. I check my emails and texts but, apart from the earlier one, there’s nothing from her. Why didn’t she call me?
A copy of the Mail on Sunday lies folded on the seat beside me and I pick it up. My stomach clenches when I read the headline: ‘The Price of a Pint of Milk’.
It’s a rant from a female journalist about the family who had their child removed; outraged and acerbically amusing. The words blur. I shove it away, as if it’s something alive and disgusting. After what feels like hours, a policewoman pushes the door open and I start guiltily.
‘We’re ready for you, Mrs Seagrave.’
Down the corridor, Amber is being escorted out by a young policewoman. She smiles and raises her hand in greeting and I raise mine. It feels as though time slows and stretches, and then we pass with a brief snagging of our eyes and it speeds up again. I learn nothing from the encounter, am able to read nothing in her glance. If anything, it makes me more nervous.
On the other side of the mirror in the viewing room there are eight men dressed in T-shirts and jeans. They stand with feet apart, right hand gripping the left wrist. Grayling leans against the wall a few feet away from me, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Take your time, Mrs Seagrave.’
I take him literally and give at least ten seconds to each man. The intruder who broke into my house is second from the left. I recognize everything about him, including things I didn’t even realize I’d noticed, from the shape of his forehead, to his hairline, to the way his left shoulder is lower than the right. I recognize his thin, pale mouth and the broad shape of his face. His head is dipped and he’s gazing straight at the mirror from under lowered lids. His expression is absolutely blank but I can easily guess what he’s thinking. I can’t accuse him and he can’t accuse me. Impasse. I debate whether it matters if my responses don’t match Amber’s and decide it doesn’t. Maybe they made them turn their backs towards her because that’s how she says she saw him.
I shake my head.
‘No one even faintly familiar?’ Grayling says.
‘They’re not the right type. Sorry.’
He moves away from the wall and comes to stand beside me. I feel his presence intensely and it makes my heart jump about. The seconds tick by and he doesn’t say anything, and I start to sweat. It prickles beneath my arms and heat rises uncomfortably up the back of my neck. Finally, he moves to the door and holds it open for me. I don’t breathe until I’m out of the building and in the back of the police car. A WPC drives me home, for which I’m thankful. I don’t think I could have stood another tête-à-tête with Grayling. When we are nearly there I have a thought and ask her to pull over outside the Spar on Tennyson Street. I tell her I need to get some milk and will walk the rest of the way. She doesn’t question it. I go in and hover close to the door until she’s done a U-turn and driven off, then I leave the shop and head towards Amber’s.
Amber presses the buzzer to let Vicky in and opens the door to the flat. She hums as she transfers the leftovers of Robert’s roast chicken into a smaller dish, covers it with cling film and pops it in the fridge. Should be plenty for lunch tomorrow if she makes a salad out of it. She turns as Vicky drops her bag on to one of the chairs.
‘Where’s Robert?’ she asks as she kisses Amber’s cheek.
‘Nice to see you too.’
‘Sorry. Start again.’ She takes off her jacket and hangs it on the hook where Amber keeps her apron. Her hands are cold and she holds them against the radiator for a moment. ‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘Robert’s reading to Sophie. Glass of wine?’
‘Oh, no. I can’t stay long. We’ve had a bit of a disaster at home. I just wanted a quick chat about tonight.’
Amber nods and closes the kitchen door. ‘So how was it for you?’ She twitches her eyebrows, making Vicky laugh.
‘I don’t know. OK, I suppose. It was difficult, trying to pretend not to recognize him without hamming it up like a bad actor. I was convinced Grayling could tell. It’s the way he looks at you, like he’s got a degree in body language.’
‘I know what you mean. Wasn’t it weird, seeing that man again? Gave me the shivers.’
‘What did you tell Grayling?’
She regards Vicky over her glass. ‘Nothing. You needn’t worry. You’ve got away with it.’
‘That’s not how it feels. I should have told them the truth straight away and I shouldn’t have involved you. I am so sorry.’