‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘New hairstyle, new life. I’m moving on.’

‘You ever hear anything from Tim?’

Naylor’s smile slips, and the shadow of a heartache crosses her face.

‘Not these days. We’re not exactly top of each other’s Christmas card lists, after what happened. Last I heard he was living in Cornwall. He’d love it down there, wall-to-wall surfing. Right up his alley.’

‘I always wondered if you might get back together.’

Naylor shakes her head.

‘No chance. Turns out he’s not the forgiving kind. But I’ve got the flat, and I’m comfortable there. I’ve even got a cat for company.’

‘You don’t like cats.’

‘This one was down on its luck, and I was feeling sentimental. We went to a sudden death, a youngish guy whose heart gave out. Turned out to be heart failure induced by so-called energy drinks. Anyway, he had this cat, a scarred old bruiser who looked like he was on his last legs, and I thought the poor thing wouldn’t last long in an animal shelter. He’s no trouble and it’s good to have a warm body to go home to, even if it’s covered in ginger fur.’

The food arrives, and while they eat, the talk’s all station gossip: who’s sleeping with who, who’s heading for promotion, the outcomes of the cases Perdue left unresolved.

‘That youth who stamped on the homeless bloke outside the Ernest Road chip shop, what happened to him?’ he asks, finishing the last of his pie.

‘Eighteen months,’ says Naylor. ‘He thought he was going to get it suspended, but with his back catalogue of offending, the judge took a different view.’

‘Should have got longer. He’s a vicious little bastard, that one.’

‘Well, he’s off our radar for now.’ Naylor eats her last chip. ‘And what about you, Ron? Are you finding plenty to occupy yourself, now you’ve hung up your spurs?’

Ron shrugs.

‘I suppose. We’ve been away a couple of times, the Lake District, Dorset. June always wanted to go to Dorset, and I always said it was too far away if something happened.’

‘So what brought you here today? Was it just coincidence that we were having the biggest bun-fight of a press conference we’ve had in years?’

Perdue drains his glass.

‘You know me better than that,’ he says. ‘Fancy coffee?’