As usual, the street was empty, everyone back in their boxes, even the traffic on Stratford Road sounding distant. She waited until they’d rounded Terry Willett’s redoubtable Ford Transit, out of view from the house in case Lennie or Christine were watching from a window. She was careful to stop before they reached the little playschool at the end of the stretch. That was an echo too far – it was where they’d used to say goodbye before Samir got the car. She had a sudden sense-memory of the cool railings against her bare shoulders on a night that summer, that strappy cotton top she’d had, left by accident in a hostel in Windhoek eventually. Gnats weaving in a cone of streetlight, his hand behind her head, fingers in the fine hair at the base of her skull.

She shut it down. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you want to talk about?’

He put his hands in his pockets, looked at her. ‘The incident room got a call earlier from the Serbian church in Bournville,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

Robin said nothing.

‘Apparently, there was a woman there this afternoon menacing the parishioners. Mid-thirties, brown eyes, brown hair tied back in a scruffy bun, black leather jacket and jeans? Drove away in a navy-blue Audi?’

‘Nope. Doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘For Christ’s sake, this isn’t funny.’ He spoke through his teeth, jaw gritted.

‘Who’s laughing?’

‘Not me. You bloody idiot – impersonating a police officer!’

‘I didn’t – I didn’t impersonate an officer. It was only because this massive bloke started getting heavy – talk about menacing. He asked me if I was police; I said yes to stop him lamping me.’

Samir’s eyes were glittering. ‘I’m supposed to be at parents’ evening at the moment, Robin, at my son’s school. Instead, here I am, racing over to Bournville to pour oil on troubled waters, try and contain the fucking mess you’ve made. They were threatening to file a police harassment complaint.’

‘Harassment? Oh, please. I was there once, for five minutes – not even. I showed them a photograph, asked if they recognized someone, that was it.’

‘Did it occur to you that Webster might have sent people there, too? Or did you think that was beyond his ken, that only you could fathom a connection between a Serbian woman and a Serbian church?’

The great Robin Lyons.

‘Corinna’s gone, Robin. I don’t want to be cruel but that’s the reality – she’s dead, there’s nothing you can do for her. Why can’t you just leave it alone? I’ve asked you – I’ve told you: leave it.’