As soon as she decently could, she went upstairs. Christine had vacuumed during the day, and the nap of the six-by-four patch of carpet was brushed into stripes like the lawn at a stately home. Robin sat down at the small white desk. How many hours had she spent here back then, the little radio blasting in her ear, Let’s all meet up in the year 2000, Robert Smith keeping her company from the side of the wardrobe? All the messing around, Rin and Josh and Kev, Samir, that was what she remembered when she looked back but actually, the truth was, if she was at home and she wasn’t asleep or eating, she’d been here at this desk with her eyes glued to her files. She’d been driven then, really driven, and it had paid off. She’d blown her A-levels out of the water.

She needed that drive again now, that same intense focus. She reached for the laptop, opened Google and typed in ‘Farrell Hinton’. The list of hits appeared, the Mail piece number one, right at the top: VIOLENT GANGSTER FREED BY ROGUE MURDER COP. She moved the cursor over it then swung off quickly and opened Hotmail in a new tab instead. Five new messages, four of them spam offering her Viagra, Cialis and money off at Nando’s – now there was an evening. One of them, sent an hour earlier, wasn’t spam.

Hi Robin, thanks for your message. Yes, I’m friends with Becca and I’m really worried about her, of course, so if there’s anything you think I can help with, let me know. Tarryn

Robin hit ‘Reply’. Hi, thanks for getting in touch. I’m an investigator working with Becca’s mother, Valerie. We’re following up on a couple of things and it’d be great to talk to you. I’m happy to ring you or, if you prefer, you can call me.

She gave her number then went back to the Mail piece.

The photograph was one of the worst of her ever taken. Whoever had leaked the story to the Mail had given them either her address itself or enough information to find it, and the photographer had lain in wait outside until she’d put on her rattiest coat and trainers. No make-up, no sleep – she looked like she’d spent the night carousing in an underpass. By comparison, Hinton looked like an upstanding citizen or at least a City banker. If you didn’t know the photo had been taken outside court, you’d think he was on the steps of a particularly smart office building or his country pile. His suit and hair were impeccable, his inner pit bull chained up for the day so that here, unalloyed, was the suave, charming Hinton – Jamie, so innocuous-sounding – the one whom Freshwater, in that final showdown, had actually suggested she fancied.