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Clements knows that there is always doubt. A flicker, like a wick almost lit, then instantly snuffed. Nothing is certain in this world. That’s why people like her are so important; people who know about ambiguity yet carry on regardless, carry on asking questions, finding answers. Dig, push, probe. That is her job. For a conviction to be secured in a court of law, things must be proven beyond reasonable doubt. It isn’t easy to do. Barristers are brilliant, wily. Jurors can be insecure, overwhelmed. Defendants might lie, cheat. The evidence so far is essentially fragile and hypothetical.

‘I said, didn’t I. Right at the beginning, I said it’s always the husband that’s done it,’ Tanner continues excitedly. He did say as much, yes. However, he was talking about Husband Number 1, Mark Fletcher, at that point, if Clements’ memory serves her correctly, which it always does. And even if her memory one day fails to be the reliable machine that it currently is, she takes notes – meticulous notes – so she always has those to rely on. Yes, Tanner said it was the husband, but this case has been about which husband. Daan Janssen, married to Kai: dedicated daughter to a sick mother, classy dresser and sexy wife. Or Mark Fletcher, husband to Leigh: devoted stepmother, conscientious management consultant and happy wife? Kai. Leigh. Kylie. Kylie Gillingham, the bigamist, had been hiding in plain sight. But now she is gone. Vanished.

‘The case against Janssen is gathering momentum,’ says Clements, carefully.

‘Because Kylie was held captive in his apartment block.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is right on the river, easy way to lose a body.’

She winces at this thought but stays on track. ‘Obviously Mark Fletcher has motive too. A good lawyer trying to cast doubt on Janssen’s guilt might argue that Fletcher knew about the other husband and followed his wife to her second home.’

Tanner is bright, fast; he chases her line of thought. He knows the way defence lawyers create murky waters. ‘Fletcher could have confronted Kylie somewhere in the apartment block.’

‘A row. A violent moment of fury,’ adds Clements. ‘He knocks her out cold. Then finds an uninhabited apartment and impetuously stashes her there.’

Tanner is determined to stick to his theory that Janssen is the guilty man. ‘Sounds far-fetched. How did he break in? This thing seems more planned.’

‘I agree, but the point is, either husband could have discovered the infidelity, then, furious, humiliated and ruthless, imprisoned her. They’d have wanted to scare and punish, reassert control, show her who was boss.’ They know this much, but they do not know what happened next. Was she killed in that room? If so, where is the body hidden? ‘And you know we can’t limit this investigation to just the two husbands. There are other suspects,’ she adds.

Tanner flops into his chair, holds up a hand and starts to count off the suspects on his fingers. ‘Oli, Kylie’s teen stepson. He has the body and strength of a man …’

Clements finishes his thought. ‘But the emotions and irrationality of a child. He didn’t know his stepmum was a bigamist, but he did know she was having an affair. It’s possible he did something rash. Something extreme that is hard to come back from.’

‘Then there’s the creepy concierge in the swanky apartment block.’

‘Alfonzo.’

‘Yeah, he might be our culprit.’

Clements considers it. ‘He has access to all the flats, the back stairs, the CCTV.’

‘He’s already admitted that he deleted the CCTV from the day Kylie was abducted. He said that footage isn’t kept more than twenty-four hours unless an incident of some kind is reported. Apparently the residents insist on this for privacy. It might be true. It might be just convenient.’

Clements nods. ‘And then there’s Fiona Phillipson. The best friend.’

‘Bloody hell. We have more suspects than an Agatha Christie novel,’ says Tanner with a laugh that is designed to hide how overwhelmed and irritated he feels. His nose squashed up against shadowy injustice, cruel violence and deception.

‘Right.’

‘I still think the husband did it.’

‘Which one?’

‘Crap. Round and round in circles we go.’ He scratches his head aggressively. ‘Do you want me to order in pizza? It’s going to be a long night.’

‘Is anyone still doing deliveries? I don’t think they are,’ points out Clements. ‘You know, lockdown.’

‘Crap,’ he says again, and then rallies. ‘Crisps and chocolate from the vending machine then. We’ll need something to sustain us while we work out where Kylie is.’

Clements smiles to herself. It’s the first time in a long time that Tanner has referred to Kylie by name, not as ‘her’ or ‘the bigamist’ or, worse, ‘the body’. It feels like an acceptance of a possibility that she might be somewhere. Somewhere other than dead and gone.

Did she somehow, against the odds, escape? Is Kylie Gillingham – the woman who dared to defy convention, the woman who would not accept limits and laughed in the face of conformity – still out there, somehow just being?

God, Clements hopes so.

Just Between Us is available now!

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