There’s a loud cheer and Mina swivels in her chair in time to see Guy Daley walk into the office. It has been a year since she last saw him, being hurried into the back of an ambulance. The room erupts into a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” but for all that she’s happy Daley hasn’t suffered any long-lasting effects from his knock on the head, she can’t bring herself to join in with it. She turns back to her screen and begins reading the notes again.

Half an hour later she gives up and makes her way to the watercooler with an empty plastic bottle. You’re not supposed to refill bottles. There’s a printed sign, laminated and stuck to the wall with Blu Tack that says, “In the interests of hygiene, please do NOT refill water bottles. Use the paper cups provided!!!!!” Despite the underlining, bold, and excessive use of exclamation marks, no one ever uses the paper cups provided.

Her bottle is half full when Daley appears alongside her. He smiles at her without speaking and it’s even worse than the encounters she used to have with the man.

“Welcome back, Guy. How are you doing?”

“Cheers, Mina. Yeah, I’m good, mate.”

Mina? Mate? Perhaps the knock on his head dislodged something. She immediately feels the shame of that thought. He was badly hurt last year, and from what she’s heard, it’s been a long recovery. He might be an ignorant bastard but he didn’t deserve that. Still, mate? Maybe it’s the fact she’s a detective now. She hasn’t considered that before. Is she now “one of the lads”?

As though he’s read her thoughts, he says, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Right. Yeah, thanks.”

“Look, I . . .” He trails off and they stand in silence as her water bottle fills slowly to the brim.

She lets go of the dispensing button and turns to face him. She wants to head straight back to her desk, but it’s obvious he hasn’t finished yet.

“Thing is, Mina,” he says, and steadfastly fails to reveal the thing. “I just wanted to say . . . look, thanks. You know.”

She’s so shocked to hear the words coming from him it takes her a few seconds to work out what he’s talking about. But then it comes to her. He must have found out from someone that she was the one who sat with his split scalp cradled in her hands as he bled all over her best jeans. With one hand she’d pressed a T-shirt as hard as she dared against his head to staunch the blood loss, while with the other she called for help, chasing up the ambulance, the fire brigade, and every police officer South Yorkshire had to spare.

“No problem,” she says. She can’t really think of anything else to say.