Rosie used a knife to chop the end off the banana, the blade hitting the table with a cathartic thump. She fed the piece to Fluffy as he slinked over the laminate. “Are you running an illegal drug den, Jemima? Fuelled with the spoils of your day job?”

“Definitely not. Christ, I feel guilty if I’ve got a headache and I take a couple of Brufen from the bag.”

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep about the search, then. Knowing how overstretched our lot are, I can see them getting around to it about a week on Wednesday. Have you spoken to a union rep?”

“Not yet. But I’m going to,” Jem added hurriedly, as if afraid Rosie might scold her for neglecting the priorities. The thin rasp of her irregular wheezing was transmitted clearly, despite the patchy mobile reception.

Rosie left her chair and paced across the kitchen, battening down the urge to go to Darnton and have this conversation in person, perhaps calling in on Baxter if she had a minute or two to spare. “It’ll be okay,” she said once she could keep the agitation from her voice. The last thing Jem needed was Rosie feeding her anxiety. “I’m assuming this isn’t the first time that drugs have gone missing.”

“Hardly. There was a spate of paramedics leaving them on the roofs of the RRV when they checked the safe and then forgetting they were up there.”

Rosie gave a disbelieving laugh. “What happened to those dozy buggers?”

“Slapped wrist, warning on file,” Jem said, sounding a little brighter. “The powers that be issued an angry memo.”

Rosie whacked her palm on the countertop. “Right then, that’s your precedent set. Any union rep worth their salt will make mincemeat of that little tosser if he tries to go down a different path with you, so don’t be fretting.”

“Okay, okay, no fretting, I promise. I’m sorry to bug you with all this, it’s just that my dad’s chasing around after a traumatised eight-month-old, and Ferg’s gone to Lollapielooza for a long weekend, and—”

“Excuse me?” Rosie said. “Lollapie what now?”

Jem stifled a giggle. “Lollapielooza. Seriously, that’s what it’s called. It’s the UK’s only pie expo. ‘Showcasing the best in British pies,’” she added, as if reading from the brochure. “He’ll be back and very hung-over on Tuesday.”

“Hmm.” Rosie scratched Fluffy, who raised a foot in appreciation. “Does this mean you’ll be home alone and dwelling on all this morphine business?”

“Yeah, it might,” Jem conceded. She coughed, but it didn’t sound like an asthma-type cough, more a placeholder as she debated what to say next. “Are you working this weekend?” she finally asked.