He noticed the bruise on her eye straight off, a small mark on the rise of the cheekbone. Glenda had tried her best to cover it with powder, and for that reason alone Hobbes didn’t mention it. Still, it was a shock, and he felt his anger rising. Anger, and something he didn’t like to think about, but he couldn’t help himself: had a man done this?

In the living room she directed him to the settee, as she sat at the table, a respectable distance away. They didn’t speak. He shifted about uncomfortably. It was strange to see her in this way, her face with its recent bruise, and his with the scar still healing. They had each received punishment: but who had done this to her? How could he ask?

Glenda coughed.

Hobbes managed a thin smile. ‘You’re looking …’

‘Yes?’

He wanted to say, You’re looking good, or You’re looking well, or some such, but the bruise stopped him. It would be a stupid thing to say.

They fell back into silence.

No offer of a cup of tea, no biscuits, no niceties.

And then she turned away from him to stare at the decorative wall clock. She’d bought it when he’d been made detective sergeant. A celebration for the house. The room looked exactly the same: nothing new, nothing missing.

‘How is your face?’ she asked. ‘It looks to be healing.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ What else could he say?

‘Henry, I know what you’re staring at.’

He nodded.

‘Well, I must say, we both look a state.’ She tried for a laugh and failed, and her voice caught. Her hand strayed to the bruise, then hurried away. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said.

‘What am I thinking?’

Now Glenda turned to him and they stared at each other. Hobbes read so much into the shared look that he couldn’t begin to untangle the feelings.

‘It was an accident.’

He frowned. And then she genuinely shocked him.

‘Martin did it.’

For a moment he thought he’d misheard. ‘Martin …’

‘Yes. But like I said, Henry, it was an accident, it really was.’ Now she was speaking quickly, all awkwardness lost. ‘He pushed me. We just sort of banged into each other, that’s all, I swear to God.’

‘He was here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, yes. He came round a few days ago. Friday night, it was.’

Hobbes stood up. He went over to the table and sat down near her. ‘Glenda, tell me. What did he want?’

‘He wanted …’ Her eyes closed. ‘He wanted help.’

‘In what way?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t speaking proper sense.’

‘How often does he visit?’

She looked at him. ‘Oh, he’s only been here twice, only twice since you … since we … I mean, since you left. The first time he looked bad, far too thin, and really desperate. He can’t be eating properly. He said he was in trouble, but he wouldn’t say why. I gave him a few pounds, just what I had in my purse.’