The adrenalin rush from the near-miss got my brain working again. Two women I’d loved had died early-my ex-wife Cyn of cancer, and Glen Withers, who had virtually suicided. But I hadn’t been emotionally close to either of them at the time they died. This was emotionally different. I found myself calculating how long it had been since Lily and I had last made love.

Williams tugged at my arm. ‘First you nearly walk into a bus, then you go catatonic. Come on.’

We crossed the road and waited for the light to cross again. I was starting to take things in. Williams was older than he looked and not a bad guy. He shot me a couple of concerned looks. He didn’t swagger the way some cops do, and he didn’t expect people to step out of his way. He paused to stub his cigarette on the rim of a bin and drop it in.

‘You all right, Mr Hardy?’ he said. ‘You look cold. You should have put on a jacket.’

‘I’m all right. Let’s get this over with.’

I’ve been in the Glebe police station quite a few times, never for drinks and nibbles. It’s been tarted up more than once over the years, but something of its essence always comes back-a look, smell and feel that speak of long hours, tiredness, loss, anger, frustration and takeaway food. Williams spoke to the woman at the desk and we were shown up a set of stairs to an interview room.

‘Water?’ Williams said.

I nodded. He went out and came back with two plastic cups. He’d done this before and more times than me: he set up the video, adjusted the focus and the angle and we got down to it.

‘Detective Sergeant Colin Williams, Northern Crimes Unit, card number W781, interviewing Mr Cliff Hardy at Glebe police station.’ He glanced at his watch and announced the time and date.