“Could you not sing that?” said Robin suddenly, unable to bear it any longer.

“Sorry,” he said, startled. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Maybe it’s got happy memories for you,” said Robin, turning to look out of the window, “but it hasn’t for me.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Matthew look at her, then turn back to the road. After another mile or so she wished she had not said anything.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t sing something else.”

“That’s all right,” he said.

The temperature had fallen slightly by the time they reached Donington Park Services, where they stopped for a coffee. Robin left her jacket hanging over the back of her chair when she went to the bathroom. Alone, Matthew stretched, his T-shirt riding up out of his jeans to reveal a few inches of flat stomach and drawing the attention of the girl serving behind the Costa Coffee bar. Feeling good about himself and life, Matthew grinned and winked at her. She turned red, giggled and turned to her smirking fellow barista, who had seen.

The phone in Robin’s jacket rang. Assuming that it was Linda trying to find out how close they were to home, Matthew reached lazily across—conscious of the girls’ eyes upon him—and tugged the phone out of Robin’s pocket.

It was Strike.

Matthew looked at the vibrating device as though he had inadvertently picked up a tarantula. The phone continued to ring and vibrate in his hand. He looked around: Robin was nowhere to be seen. He answered the call, then immediately cut it. Now Corm Missed Call was written across the screen.

The big ugly bastard wanted Robin back, Matthew was sure of it. Strike had had five long days to realize he’d never get anyone better. Maybe he’d started interviewing people for the position and nobody had come close, or maybe all of them had laughed in his face at the pitiful salary he was offering.

The phone rang again: Strike was calling back, trying to make sure that the hanging up had been deliberate rather than accidental. Matthew looked at the mobile, paralyzed with indecision. He dared not answer on Robin’s behalf or tell Strike to fuck off. He knew Strike: he’d keep calling back until he spoke to Robin.

The call went to voicemail. Now Matthew realized that a recorded apology was the worst thing that could happen: Robin could listen to it again and again and finally be worn down and softened by it…

He looked up: Robin was returning from the Ladies. With her phone in his hand he stood up and pretended to be talking into it.

“It’s Dad,” he lied to Robin, placing a hand over the mouthpiece and praying that Strike would not call back again while he was standing in front of her. “Mine’s out of battery… listen, what’s your passcode? I need to look something up for the honeymoon flights—it’s to tell Dad—”

She gave it to him.

“Give me a sec, I don’t want you to hear anything about the honeymoon,” he said and walked away from her, torn between guilt and pride in his own quick thinking.