People like to read about murders; they find them comforting. You place the facts before them, polite but frank, and you ease the fear and mystery out of death.

Of course you don’t know my husband, Duncan, and I always find him difficult to describe. I carry his picture with me sometimes; more to jog my memory than through any kind of sentiment. I do love him. I do love him, even now. I love him in such a way that it seems, before I met him, I was waiting to love him. But I remember what I remember and that isn’t his face.

Now I realize that you can never be sure that anything is unique. You can never be sure you know enough to judge. I mean, when Pizzaro conquered the Incas they thought he was a god – his men too – when really Spain was full of Spaniards just like him. Eventually you see you were mistaken, but look what you’ve had to lose in order to learn.