Don’t Trust Me: The best psychological thriller debut you will read in 2018. Joss Stirling

Drew’s.’ I feel I need to explain a little more for the benefit of the silent police officers. ‘He’s a friend from Feltham. With Michael away, I didn’t want to stay here on my own last night.’ I decide not to add that debt collectors might be after me for rent I did not owe them or that I suffer from sleeplessness caused by fears of intruders: that would lead to too long a story.

      ‘And you staying away has nothing to do with the state of the bedroom, I suppose?’ Michael’s hand slices through the air, a typical gesture of annoyance which means ‘cut the crap’. ‘Don’t give me your usual excuses; I want the truth. I’m not playing nice this time. You’ve gone way too far. I’m pressing charges.’

      ‘What?’ That’s a kick in the stomach. The police are here for me. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

      ‘As if you don’t know!’

      ‘I don’t!’

      One of the policemen stands. ‘Perhaps Miss Bridges would like to accompany me upstairs so she can see what this is about.’

      I trail after the constable. It’s odd to see his heavy shoes on our carpet. Michael is usually so insistent that we change out of outdoor shoes before going into the carpeted areas. The policeman leads me to our bedroom at the front and opens the door.

      ‘Oh my God.’ The room has been trashed – not just turned over by thieves but systematically ruined. The covers are ripped off the bed and the mattress has been slashed on Michael’s side. White stuffing leaks out and you can see the springs. Our carving knife has been left in the material, stabbed where his heart would be if he were in bed. His clothes are out of the wardrobe and drawers, some shirts torn in two. There’s a strong smell of aftershave in the air from the smashed bottle that had stood on his side of the dressing table. His stack of bedside reading – mainly psychology related – have been tugged from their covers and turned into clumps of confetti.

      But my side is untouched. Clothes hang limply. Lotion bottles still lined up on the glass top. An iPad and a stout Kingsolver sit waiting for me. My glass of water hasn’t even been spilled.

      ‘This wasn’t me.’ I don’t dare cross the threshold.

      ‘Perhaps you’d better come back downstairs with me, Miss, and we can discuss this in the kitchen.’

      ‘It wasn’t me. Have you swept for fingerprints?’ I follow him. ‘Was the alarm tripped again? Our neighbour would’ve noticed. You must ask her.’

      Michael is standing with his back to the oven, arms folded. ‘Well?’

      ‘You can’t think I’d do that, Michael.’ He obviously does. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear it.’

      The policeman who took me upstairs gets out a notebook. The other one, I notice, is stroking Colette surreptitiously under the table.

      ‘You came back here last night after Miss Huntingdon reported the alarm had gone off, correct?’

      ‘Yes. At about nine.’

      ‘You came inside and saw no evidence of a break-in?’

      ‘No, it all seemed normal.’ Then I realise. ‘I didn’t go upstairs, though. I was in a hurry because I had to get to my old office to fetch some things before they got thrown away.’

      ‘Were you with anyone?’

      ‘Yes, with Drew. Andrew Payne, the friend from Feltham. He’s employed in his family funeral business. We came after he’d finished work for the day.’

      Michael gives a sceptical snort. For some reason, he’s never believed Drew has a job and refuses to accept any proof I offer. I’ve given up trying and I know Drew, on the rare times they’ve met, believes it a point of honour to present his worst side to Michael, as he is so ready to think badly of him.

      ‘Did he come in with you?’

      ‘No, he stayed on his moped outside. That’s another reason why I didn’t go upstairs. I didn’t want to keep him waiting.’

      ‘So when were you last in the front bedroom?’

      ‘Yesterday morning, about midday, when I grabbed a few things to stay away overnight.’

      ‘And how did you leave the room?’

      I’m tempted to blurt out ‘by the door’ but this isn’t the moment for inappropriate quips. ‘Mainly tidy.’

      ‘Mainly?’

      ‘Michael had left some laundry on the floor. I wasn’t in the mood to pick it up.’ I shoot Michael a glance but his expression is granite.

      The policeman leans forward. ‘What mood were you in?’

      ‘I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time for moods.’

      ‘Why a hurry?’

      ‘Because I didn’t want to stay here alone and wanted to go to Drew’s. Look, officer, I know it looks bad up there but I didn’t do that. Someone else got into the house. There must be signs of how they did it?’

      ‘There’s not been a break-in,’ snaps Michael. ‘Believe me, that’s the first thing I checked.’

      ‘And can you tell us what you took from the bedroom when you left yesterday?’ continues the constable.

      ‘Not much. Change of clothes. Wash bag. Night stuff. Oh, and I borrowed some money from Michael’s wallet as I didn’t have any cash. I’ll pay you back, Michael.’

      ‘I don’t care about the fucking money, Jessica. I just want to know why you did it. Why take Emma’s picture, the diary and wedding ring?’

      This is the second time I’m blindsided. ‘What?’

      ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Her picture, a diary and the little blue box with her wedding ring are the only things I’ve noticed that are missing. I didn’t think to count the cash, but I suppose I should add that to the list.’

      ‘But I didn’t… I mean, why would I do that?’ I hadn’t taken anything else and forgotten, had I? I remember looking at the picture, the rings and the notebook but I’m sure I put them back. I took photos rather than remove the diary. Oh God, that’s going to look really suspicious if they ask to see what’s in my phone’s photo app.

      The policeman clears his throat. ‘Miss, Dr Harrison said before you arrived that you have a history of mental illness, that you’re on medication.’

      ‘Hardly. I suffer from ADHD which is, as I expect you are aware, a mild condition that about five per cent of the population have and can be controlled with treatment. It’s not a personality disorder of the magnitude to do that.’ I jerk my chin towards the stairs.

      ‘He said you had spent time in a clinic to straighten yourself out after an episode of delusions about a pupil at your last school where you were employed.’

      God, it is all circling back to haunt me. ‘I had a breakdown due to stress. I’m better now.’

      The policeman lowers his voice, getting all pally with me. ‘Look, Miss, if you do have those items on you, things will go much more easily if you produce them now. Otherwise Dr Harrison has said he wants to press charges.’

      ‘But I didn’t do it – I don’t have them. How can I produce something I don’t have? Look, here’s everything I have on me.’ I take my bag and tip it upside down. Two mugs fall out, one smashes, followed by my notebooks, and then miscellaneous rubbish that accumulates in the bottom of my handbag. I throw out my arms. ‘You can search me. See, I really don’t have them.’

      Michael has the gall to look inside the bag I’ve emptied. ‘You’ve probably stashed them at your friend’s – or thrown them away.’ His voice breaks a little on that last suggestion. ‘I know things have been bad between us, Jessica, but I never thought you’d be so cruel as to stoop to taking that