Page 8 of The Stranger in Room Six

At the police station, I’m taken into a room, empty aside from a table and two chairs. There’s a plastic jug of water in front of me. My mouth is dry, but my shaky hands can’t pick it up and I’m too nervous to ask for help.

On the other side is an unsmiling woman who says she is a detective inspector. She gives me her name but I’m too stressed to take it in.

‘Do I need a lawyer?’ I ask quietly.

‘That’s up to you,’ she replies coldly.

The vice-chair of the tennis club is a lawyer. But if I call, the news will spread in seconds.

It will anyway, reasons a small voice inside me.

No. I need someone who really knows me.

Fortunately, I’ve always had a good memory. I’ve read that letter enough times to recall the number at the bottom.

‘I’d like to make a phone call,’ I say.

This time, he picks up immediately.

‘Imran Raj speaking.’

A bolt shoots through me. I’d forgotten how chocolatey-rich his voice sounded. The voice that whispered in my ear while he held me tight beneath the sheets nearly thirty years ago.

‘It’s me, Belinda,’ I whisper.

‘You called!’ The joy in his voice rings out around the room. The policewoman visibly twitches.

There is no time for formalities. No time to say, ‘How lovely to hear your voice’. No time to tell him all the things I’ve been saving up in my heart over the years in case – just in case – we ever had a chance to talk again. ‘I need a lawyer,’ I say instead. The words stick in my throat.

Instantly his voice becomes solemn. ‘I don’t understand. Why? Are you OK?’

‘My husband, Gerald, has just died. They think I killed him, but it was an accident.’

‘Belinda, is this some kind of joke?’

‘No,’ I cry. ‘Just find me a lawyer. Please. I’m being held in a police station and I don’t know who else to ask.’

‘Where are you?’ he asks.

I look at the policewoman opposite. ‘Where am I?’ I ask.

She writes down an address.

I try to repeat it, but my words come out wrong. She writes it down for me. I have to say the postcode twice because the words come out twisted. Mangled.

‘I’ll sort it,’ Imran says. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I just want Gerald.’ Then I burst into tears.