Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018

‘I’m just going to take a picture of your neck wound,’ the police officer says.

A small camera appears from her pocket and the officer takes a string of snaps.

‘And now I need to remove your clothes and bag them. They will be sent for forensic analysis. Is that OK?’

The prisoner nods her head. The police officer removes her clothes, so gently. Folds them and puts them in individual paper bags. Gives her a paper jumpsuit and instructs her to put it on.

‘Forensics will be here soon to examine your hands.’

Hours later, hands inspected, plastic bags removed, a silent police officer is escorting her to the interview room in the custody suite. She looks at the wall clock. Eleven p.m. The officer opens the door of the interview room to reveal her family solicitor, Richard Mimms, sitting behind a plastic table, the skin around his overtired eyes pushed together too much, framed by black-rimmed glasses.

She has only seen him once before, when they went to his office with her mother, many years ago. She thought his eyes were strange then. They’re even stranger now. She sits down next to him on a plastic chair, the grey table in front of them. The officer leaves the room, locking the door behind him.

‘Your mother has instructed me to act for you. Is that acceptable?’ Richard Mimms asks.

The word mother causes nausea to percolate in her stomach. She pictures her being told the news. Home doorbell slicing through canned TV laughter. Mother putting her teacup down on the coffee table and walking across the sitting room, into the hallway to answer the door, silently begging whoever is disturbing her evening peace to go away.

But the voice she doesn’t recognise in the hallway isn’t going away. It pushes its way into her quiet evening, tumbling towards her, becoming louder, more insistent. Mother is pale, moving like a wraith. For she has seen the foreboding in the police officer’s face.

‘Please sit down, I’ve something to tell you,’ he says.

‘Your mother has instructed me to act for you. Is that acceptable?’ Richard Mimms repeats, jolting her back into the room. She looks at him and nods her head.

‘Yes. Please.’

‘So,’ Richard Mimms continues, ‘we’re allowed a short time on our own together before your interview.’ There is a pause. ‘I want you to say as little as possible about what happened. Too much detail can be twisted against you.’

‘How?’ she asks, confused.

‘Stick to the basic outline of what happened – don’t tell the police anything personal. Anything they might be able to use against you.’

She can only just follow what Richard Mimms is saying. Her head aches and she isn’t concentrating properly. All she can see is her sister’s face contorting in her mind, from the face she loved, to the face that moved towards her in the kitchen.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Richard Mimms is asking. ‘Leave the detail to us. Your brief and me. The professionals.’

Words solidify in her mind.

‘My brief? Already?’ she asks.

‘I’ve got someone in mind. Very thorough. Never lost a case.’

She tries to smile and say thank you but her lips don’t seem to move.

Richard Mimms leans towards her and puts his hand on her arm.

‘Keep strong until Monday. I’m sure we’ll sail through this and be granted bail.’

But his manner seems artificial. Overconfident. She wants him to go away.

They are interrupted by a senior officer arriving, filling the room with his broad-shouldered presence and understated importance.

‘Detective Inspector Irvine,’ he says, shaking her hand. He sits down opposite her. ‘My colleague Sergeant Hawkins will be here soon so that we can start the interview. Can I get you anything: tea, coffee, water, before we start?’

‘No thanks.’

A difficult silence settles between them. He is appraising her with his eyes in a way that is making her feel uncomfortable. She is relieved when the Sergeant arrives. He doesn’t introduce himself. He just sits down next to DI Irvine and nods across at her. She is too traumatised to nod back.

The DI presses a button on the tape recorder.

He leans towards it, announces today’s date, and the names of those present in the room. He leans back in his chair, and folds his arms.

‘So,’ he starts. ‘You called 999 and told the operator that you’d killed your sister. Is that what happened?’

‘It all happened so quickly. My sister stabbed me … and then I …’

She stammers. She stops.

‘Has the medical officer seen your injury?’

‘No. Not yet.’ She pauses. ‘An officer has taken a picture of it.’

‘So it can hardly have been that serious if you’ve not requested a doctor.’

He stands up to have a closer look.

‘We’ll need forensics and medical to check it properly,’ he says, without an ounce of sympathy. ‘So your sister stabbed you – what did you do to defend yourself?’ he asks as he sits down again.

Her insides tremble as she recollects. Her sister’s eyes coagulate towards her.

‘We were …’ She pauses. ‘We were in the kitchen.’ Another pause. She bites her lips. She begins to sob.

She feels the slippage of skin. The resistance. The wetness.

‘We need to know precisely what happened. Where you were standing. Step by step. Movement by movement. Can you remember?’

She doesn’t reply.

‘Can you remember?’ he repeats.

She stirs in her chair. ‘I was standing by the sink.’

‘What did your sister say to you?’

‘She was angry.’

‘Why was she angry?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’