I did not watch continuously. That was the first thing I told the officer who contacted me later, before she had even asked.
At breakfast, I kept Poppy away from the front window and answered her question about the cars simply: the police were speaking to somebody, and we did not know enough to explain more.
Tom took her to the kitchen to help prepare food for a visit to his parents. I stayed near the back of the house until the knock came at our door.
The officer confirmed that Celia had been arrested on suspicion of Martin’s murder. She checked whether there had been further contact since my report of the request about the timing and reminded me to preserve any messages.
I gave her the latest relevant exchange. She did not describe the evidence they had assembled or invite me to decide whether it was sufficient.
“Has she said anything?” I asked before stopping myself.
“I can’t discuss an interview with you.”
“Of course.”
She explained what I needed to do if contacted about my evidence and left me the appropriate route for further information. The conversation was practical, not a reward for the part I thought I had played.
After she left, I sat at the table. My tea was cold. I drank it anyway because standing up to make another cup seemed briefly beyond me.
Tom came in.
“Do we know?”
I told him the confirmed fact. I did not add that this meant the police must have solved every uncertainty. An arrest was an action in an investigation, not a verdict delivered to my kitchen.
Across the road, Andrew stood at the doorway speaking to someone. I could see him through the side window without looking deliberately. He appeared older than he had when I’d brought the shopping.
I turned away. He had not become public property because his wife had been arrested.
Beth called shortly afterwards. She had been informed through her contact and was with Rachel.
“I’m glad you’re not alone,” I said.
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“You don’t have to tell me yet.”
She breathed out, and I realised how close I’d come to asking her to perform a reaction for me.
There was relief in her voice, but also something like fear. The possibility we had talked around for weeks had become a real action involving a woman who had once helped her leave her marriage.
“They’ll keep me informed as they can,” she said.
“All right.”
We ended the call without agreeing what the day meant beyond the fact she’d been given.
Vivienne arrived at my gate an hour later. She had her coat on but no bag, as though she’d left the house intending to go somewhere and forgotten where.
“I won’t come in if you’re busy.”
I asked if she wanted a short walk instead. We went in the opposite direction from Celia’s house.
She said she had been contacted too. Her account and the original notebook were already with investigators. She had not received a private explanation of the case.
“I keep wanting them to tell me I didn’t make it harder,” she said.
“They may not be able to tell you that.”
“I know.”
At the park entrance, a neighbour stopped us and asked whether Celia had confessed. We said we had no information about interviews and were not discussing speculation.
The neighbour looked offended by the absence of a story.
We kept walking.
On the way back, Vivienne asked whether there was anything useful she could do. I suggested she eat something and make sure Peter knew where she was. She almost laughed.
“The advice I’ve been handing out for years.”
“Try receiving it.”
At home, Priya had sent a brief message: she had heard through the appropriate contact, would preserve relevant material and would not join a discussion of the evidence in the group chat.
I was grateful she had said it first.
Tom and Poppy left for his parents’ house before lunch. I waved from the gate, then went inside and put the police contact number beside the telephone.
I felt relieved. I felt sick.
Across the road, Celia’s front door was shut.