The Spot was towards the end of the pedestrianized stretch, next door to a Chinese restaurant in a new build but itself a Victorian pub, high-ceilinged on the ground floor, the upstairs windows blacked out now to shield club-goers from passers-by, or vice versa. At street level, light poured out along with an early-evening buzz of voices, faint music, chinking glass. Robin entertained a momentary fantasy of installing herself at the bar, downing drink after drink until her brain short-circuited.

‘Right, love, let’s get this done so I can get you home.’

The website was all glinting bottles and spot-lit calla lilies, pairs of martini glasses sprouting sprigs of thyme alongside self-important talk about ‘mixology’ and ‘small plates’, but for once, photographic justice had been served. It was super-snazzy, the kind of place Adrian had used to take her, old and new combined, original iron columns, green tiles and age-spotted mirrors juxtaposed with a bar done in brushed steel. The two men behind it were twenty-something, cheekbones and tans, both in navy shirts, sleeves rolled, collars undone.

They’d only been open a few minutes but the green-leather booths along the walls were all taken and ten or fifteen people lined the bar. Maggie perused a cloth-bound menu while they waited. ‘Smart in here,’ she said. ‘Food smells good, too. Trio of sliders,’ she tapped the list with a forefinger, ‘I could murder those.’ She looked away, mortified by her word choice.

‘Ladies, what can I get you? Any questions?’

Australian. Robin grudgingly forgave him the tan.

‘Not about the menu,’ Maggie said. ‘But I wonder if we could ask you about Becca Woodson.’

The easy smile faded. ‘Becca? Are you police?’

‘Investigators, working for her mother.’ She put a card on the bar.

He breathed out. ‘Jeez. For a moment I thought you were going to say she’d been found.’

‘Found?’

‘You know …’ His eyes slid away.

Maggie glanced at Robin. ‘Dead?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is there a reason you’d think that?’ Robin asked.

He looked at her as if she was thick. ‘Because she’s missing?’

‘People go missing for all sorts of reasons. Not all of them sinister.’

‘Well, yeah.’ As if he were totally au fait with these things.

‘How well did you know Becca?’ Maggie asked. ‘She worked three nights a week?’

‘Normally. We’re both here Fridays and Saturdays – I can’t get a break on the roster. And we pulled a lot of extra shifts round Christmas and New Year’s, it was all hands on deck. Bloody busy, no time to talk, but we used to sit down afterwards, have a few jars.’

‘Was she on the bar?’

‘Food, mostly. Or running drinks.’

‘Did you ever get the sense anything was going on with her? Worrying her?’

‘Me? No, but other people know her better – the girls here are thick as thieves. Look,’ he said, ‘David’s in, the manager. I’ll get him for you.’