Walking back to the car after lunch, she checks her own phone again. Still nothing from Hagen, but as she starts the engine, the phone rings. She glances at the hands-free screen on the dashboard and sees a number she knows well, unidentified by a name. She presses a button to accept the call.

‘Rachel? It’s me.’

She doesn’t speak.

‘Rachel, are you there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Are you still mad at me?’

‘I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at me, for being such a mug.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened. It was just one of those things, you know?’

‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’

‘Can we talk about it? Where are you now? I’ve got a couple of hours.’

‘Are you serious? I should just drop everything, right now this minute? I have a job, remember?’

‘Play truant. Let’s both play truant.’

‘And where’s she? Sainsbury’s?’

‘She’s in London. She won’t be back till late.’

Naylor considers whether to say what she’s got to say, whether to blow the whole thing out of the water.

‘Book a hotel, then,’ she says. ‘Somewhere nice. And stay the night.’

‘I can’t stay the night,’ he says. ‘You know that. But I was thinking we could meet at yours. I’ll bring a bottle of something you’ll like.’

‘So let me translate. You’re too cheap to pay for a hotel, or you just don’t want it on your credit card bill. What you’re after is a quick shag this afternoon while your missus is away, as long as you can be back home at the usual time, smiling like nothing’s going on. Well, you know what? Go screw yourself.’

When she’s ended the call, she switches off the phone. There’s a tightness in her stomach which might be anger and might be hurt. She doesn’t think he’ll call again, for which part of her is relieved and another part is close to tears. Either way, she’s no appetite now for anything but a reflective drive with the music cranked up loud.

The satnav’s set for Petersen’s, but she soon changes that, re-setting it with the postcode of home.

By the time Hagen gets to Mansfield, it’s the wrong side of lunchtime. On the through route he’s following he spots Nick’s Chippy, which is still busy, and, taking that as a vote of local confidence, buys fish, chips and curry sauce and eats them in the car.

There’s still plenty of old back-to-back housing in the town, red-brick terraces which line backstreets looking little different to when they were built. Mansfield’s foundations were in mining, and since mining got the heart kicked out of it, the town’s found no way to thrive. The only businesses doing well seem to be takeaways and convenience stores.