Helen sat up slowly, her blurred eyes open wide and her voice thick with tears. ‘Oh my God, yes, I do remember. We were really shocked – he arrested her, didn’t he? I thought he looked vaguely familiar when I saw him. I felt so sorry for them. Are you sure? That’s really him?’

She didn’t know what to think. Was this a good thing? He might try harder to find Frankie because he understood the pain of almost losing a child, of things falling apart so spectacularly. But on the other hand . . . it was only two years on . . .

‘What if he’s not up to it?’ she blurted.

Sean squeezed in next to her on the tiny bed, patting her thigh. ‘He must be. There’s no way they’d have let him have the case if he wasn’t. Think how badly it would reflect on the Met if he was allowed back to work all screwed up . . .’

Helen stared into space, fighting the urge to push Sean’s hand away.

‘I thought that other detective seemed pretty competent. What was his name? Winkle?’

‘Winkler. He was looking into the person who contacted me on Facebook but I haven’t heard anything. I suppose it came to nothing.’ She still couldn’t bring herself to admit the wasted journey to the M&S café to find out for herself that Janet Friars was a nutter and a timewaster.

‘Maybe we should ask for him to be put in charge of the case.’

Helen wriggled away from Sean’s touch. She couldn’t stand it any more. ‘You think we could have any influence?’

‘I bet we could, if we kicked up a stink.’

‘I don’t know. I trust Lennon. That other guy . . . I’m sure he was checking me out.’ And, she thought, he never bothered to get back to me.

Sean smiled. ‘And who can blame him?’

She didn’t see the funny side. ‘Don’t.’

They stared at the wall in silence.

‘Anyway,’ said Sean. ‘If DI Lennon doesn’t get anywhere in another twenty-four hours, I’m going to talk to his boss. And if that doesn’t work, I’ve a good mind to go to the papers, tell them how much Lennon’s ballsing up. After the fiasco of that siege I’m sure they’d bite my hand off for the scoop.’