What to Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French

said, ‘I’m sorry. I wish we’d talked about it before. But it’s not the same.’
    ‘What makes you and Greg so different?’
    ‘He wouldn’t have behaved like that.’
    ‘That’s what I used to say about Eric.’
    ‘I have an instinct.’
    ‘You can’t face the truth. I’m your friend. Remember? We can tell the truth to each other, even if it hurts.’
    ‘It doesn’t hurt because it’s not true.’
    ‘Has it occurred to you that maybe he was sick of having sex to get pregnant?’
    I couldn’t stop myself: I flinched in pain, as if Mary had slapped me across the face.
    ‘Oh, Ellie.’ Her face softened; I saw there were tears in her eyes, whether from the cold or emotion I couldn’t tell.
    WPC Darby showed me into a small room. There were red and pink plastic flowers in a jug on the desk, and more flowers – yellow this time, a copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers – in a framed picture on the wall. I sat down and she sat opposite me, folding her hands on the desk. They were broad and strong, with bitten nails. No rings on her fingers. I looked at her face, weathered, shrewd and pleasantly plain under her severely cut hair, and was satisfied that she was the right person to tell. There was some meaningless chat and then I stopped.
    ‘It’s not the way it seemed,’ I said.
    She leaned towards me slightly, her grey eyes on my face.
    ‘I don’t believe he was having an affair with Milena Livingstone.’
    Her expression didn’t waver. She just went on looking at me and waiting for me to speak.
    ‘Actually I don’t think they even knew each other.’
    She gave a nervous smile and when she spoke it was clearly and slowly, as if I was a small child. ‘They were in the same car.’
    ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘It’s a mystery. I think you ought to look at it again.’
    In the silence, I could hear the voices in the corridor outside. WPC Darby steepled her fingers and took a deep breath. I knew what she was going to say before she said it.
    ‘Ms Falkner, your husband died in a car crash.’
    ‘He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt – but Greg always wore it. You have to investigate further.’
    ‘The coroner was perfectly satisfied that it was a tragic accident and that no other vehicle was involved. I understand that the fact he was with another woman is unsettling and upsetting for you. As a matter of evidence, how they knew each other doesn’t matter.’
    ‘There’s no evidence at all, of any kind,’ I said. ‘Nothing to show that he knew her.’
    Again, I anticipated what she was going to say. ‘If he was having an affair and keeping it secret, then perhaps that’s not surprising.’
    ‘I’m telling you, he didn’t know her.’
    ‘No. You’re telling me you don’t believe he knew her.’
    ‘It amounts to the same thing.’
    ‘With all due respect, it does not. What you believe and what is true are not necessarily the same thing.’
    ‘So you’re just going to let things lie?’
    ‘Yes. And I would advise you to do the same. You might consider seeing someone about –’
    ‘You think I need bereavement counselling? Professional help?’
    ‘I think you’ve had a terrible shock and are having difficulty in coming to terms with it.’
    ‘If anyone says “coming to terms” to me again, I think I’ll scream.’

Chapter Ten
    I read through Greg’s emails so often that I almost knew them by heart. I thought they might give me a sense of his mood in the days and weeks leading up to his death. Was there a hint of anxiety? Anger? Apprehension? I couldn’t find anything and gradually they became familiar, like songs you’ve played so often you don’t hear them any more. Then I noticed something blindingly obvious, something that everybody in the developed world apart from me must already have known. Every email showed the exact time he had pressed the send button. Each email, whether from his home or his office computer, was a fairly accurate guide as to where Greg had