Patrick had a moment of doubt. What if Suzanne was only asking him for a drink so that she could give him an off-the-record bollocking about how much he’d fucked it all up?

Have I fucked it up? he wondered as they entered their local and Suzanne headed for the bar. Frankie was still missing and two people were dead – but Liam had been found, and they knew what had happened to Isabel. Grim swings and roundabouts. And besides, he hadn’t been the hostage negotiator . . .

He headed for a table at the back of the cool dark bar. After the harshness of the fluorescent station strip lights and the dramas of the day, he needed somewhere dark and quiet for his head.

And for his heart, if he was honest. The darker and quieter the better. In all the years he’d worked with Suzanne, they had never socialised together apart from office Christmas parties and people’s leaving dos, at which she had always been unfailingly professional – apart from that one time about a year ago, in her office when Suzanne had unexpectedly produced a bottle of whiskey and two chipped mugs and they’d proceeded to get pissed like two teenagers with their first bottle of Thunderbird. That night, Patrick had opened his heart about Gill and what had recently happened with Bonnie, and Suzanne had started talking a little bit about her own marriage. That night was seared into Patrick’s memory: the way their chairs had inched closer together as the drinks went down, the heat in the room that led Suzanne to pop open the top two buttons of her blouse, the fizz in the air . . . and how Suzanne had suddenly stood up and told him it was time for them to go, like she’d shoved a knitting needle into his bubble.

Because it had never been spoken of since, Patrick sometimes wondered if it had really even happened or if he’d just imagined it.

Suzanne came back with the drinks, handing Patrick a pint. ‘How are you feeling now?’

He swallowed a mouthful and, despite his headache, felt the cold lager help ground him, restoring a sense of normality to the insanity of the day.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘Definitely better.’

‘How’s Bonnie?’ Suzanne suddenly asked, fiddling with a beer mat and not meeting his eyes, as though she had just propositioned him or something.

‘She’s fine . . . well, basically. We’re still living at my mum and dad’s, which is pretty . . . interesting . . . and I think they’re struggling with the childcare. Especially as she’s developed quite a strong personality.’

‘What – you mean she has tantrums?’

‘All the time, apparently,’ Patrick said glumly. ‘I feel so responsible. My folks should be enjoying their retirement, not conducting damage limitation for a narky two-year-old. They’re knackered.’