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

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.’

      ‘Please think,’ the DI insists.

      ‘My sister never got angry. Not like that. I had never seen her like that.’

      His words rotate in her head.

      ‘Detective Inspector, my client is extremely distressed. Mentally incapable of continuing this interview. I request she is allowed some sleep and that we continue this tomorrow, when everyone is a bit fresher,’ Richard Mimms demands.

      DI Irvine presses the tape recorder button again.

      ‘Request allowed,’ he says. Richard Mimms collects his papers, crinkling his eyes at her as he leaves.

      Back in her cell, all she can think about is her sister’s cold, dead, fish-like eyes. She lies awake all night on the hard trundle bed, shivering and trembling.

      In the morning, breakfast is a piece of dry toast, and lukewarm coffee in a disposable cup. She feels as if someone has punched her in the stomach, so she cannot touch the toast. One sip of the metallic-tasting coffee and she pours it down the sink. Then Sergeant Hawkins appears, to take her back to the interview room.

      Once there, she begins to hear her sister’s voice screaming in her head. A hysterical scream becoming louder and louder. Trying to push her sister’s scream away she sits down next to Richard Mimms. She can smell his aftershave. Herbal. Overpowering. DI Irvine and Sergeant Hawkins are opposite, their accusing eyes pushing towards her. She watches a finger pressing the button of the recording machine. The date is announced. The names of all present. And the interview begins again.

      ‘Tell me, when did you first see your sister yesterday evening?’ DI Irvine asks.

      Her words stagnate in her mouth. The screaming is overpowering her. And somewhere through the tears and the darkness and the scream, she answers DI Irvine’s questions. And somewhere through the tears and the darkness and the scream, she hears the words.

      ‘You are charged with the murder of your sister.’

      Charged. Murder. Sister. Sister. Murder. Charged.

      Words slipping through her brain as she is escorted back to her cell.

       THE PAST

       2

       Miranda

      ‘Zara, you need to go to Tesco to buy something for supper,’ I say as I sink exhausted into my brown leather sofa after yet another day selling my soul as an accountant with Harrison Goddard.

      You sigh impatiently and raise your eyes to the ceiling. You’ve been living with me for two weeks and it is only the second time I’ve asked you to do anything.

      ‘Isn’t there something in the fridge?’ You pout.

      ‘Why don’t you take a look? It’s your turn to cook.’

      You open the fridge door to inspect the contents. I know only too well what you will see. Cans of lager and the garlic dips from our takeaway pizza last time it was your responsibility.

      ‘Mmm delicious, lager and garlic – what’s wrong with that?’ you announce.

      So hopelessly undomesticated, and yet I can’t berate you. Sometimes your incompetency, your vulnerability, make me love you more than ever – my unidentical twin sister, who I feel so responsible for. Your eyes smile into mine and we both start to laugh. You lift your arms in the air in surrender.

      ‘All right. All right. See what you mean. I’ll go.’

      You are gone a long time. So long I begin to worry. Mother and I, we always worry when you move off radar. You’ve been living with Mother for years, doing a filing job in our hometown. It has taken over ten years since leaving school for you to find the confidence