And five minutes later, when the door clicked open, there he was, more ferrety even than she remembered, tall Starbucks cup in his pallid, ginger-dusted hand.

She stood. ‘Sir.’

‘Lyons.’ He kicked the door open for her again with a flick of his foot. So cool.

She’d expected the room to go quiet as she walked through behind him, the usual bloodthirsty rubbernecking at the disgraced, but to her surprise there were three waves, two ‘Hey, how are you?’s.

Freshwater didn’t turn to look at her again until they were in his office, the door closed, the Venetian blinds in the long internal window yanked shut. He sat in his chair, picked up his fountain pen by the ends and started to twist it between his fingers, giving it his best Dr. Evil. ‘So.’

So he was as fucking irritating as ever, then. What wouldn’t she give to go round the desk, tip him off the chair and kick his furry ginger arse? If she could do it without consequences. Instead she made a face she hoped looked vaguely like a smile. ‘Thanks for seeing me, sir.’

‘Well …’ He held out his hands, palms up, as if to say, what did she expect, given his reputation for magnanimity?

Do it before you change your mind. ‘I came to apologize,’ she said.

His face – as if he’d just heard a dog talk.

‘For not following your instructions …’

‘Orders, Lyons.’

‘Orders, sir, that day.’ God, she was going to barf.

Another turn of the pen, making her wait for it. ‘Well, good,’ he said. ‘It seems your time away has been good for you, doesn’t it? Given you some thinking time?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No doubt you know,’ he said, glancing up from underneath his eyebrows, ‘that there’s been some movement on the Farrell case.’

‘Movement? I heard that perhaps there might have been a more complex reason for his disappearance.’

The eyes narrowed: Don’t push it. ‘We received an anonymous package with CCTV tape of Hinton with Richie Liddle’s girlfriend in a Newcastle nightclub. As you may have heard.’

‘Hm.’ She nodded slowly. Really? Interesting. She’d texted Boz last week: Muchas gracias, amigo. Five minutes later, De nada. He and Lauren took Spanish evening classes through the borough council; their dream, he’d told Robin once, was to open a bar in Spain.

‘Under the circumstances,’ Freshwater said, leaning back in his chair, ‘and given what we hear about your cooperation with West Midlands,’ he looked at her, ‘we could be prepared to review your case internally. Perhaps look at reinstating you sooner rather than later. Given our current caseload.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Sir.’