There has been another break-in. Number five, report from the PC forwarded to Robin to follow up on. He looked at the photographs from the scene: scattered beer cans, glass shards from a smashed bottle of vodka, cigarettes stubbed out on the carpet. Much like the others. He read the witness statements: neighbours heard something the weekend before but hadn’t bothered to call it in. Owners returned home from holiday to find the mess and their laptop and iPad missing. As before, the only things that had been taken were small and portable – easy to sell, hard to trace. New evidence had been gathered and forwarded to the lab; reports had come back from the one before – nothing. No DNA, no fingerprints. From here, all they could do was wait. With no further lines of enquiry, it would have to go on the back burner for now.

And now five p.m. has rolled around, and Robin’s aware he’s still in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. Unwashed, unshaved, and mere hours away from going to see Steph for dinner.

Remembering Greg’s words from the day before, he shaves, removing three days’ worth of stubble, then has a long shower, cleaning his teeth and making some attempt to style his hair, despite its desperate need for a cut. He puts on jeans then irons his one remaining clean shirt.

And as he drives towards Steph’s house, he finds himself humming along to the radio. It’s the first time he’s felt decent in days, the restorative power of the thought of a good meal, a bottle of wine and possibly a shag in his future.

He pulls up outside Steph’s house and rings the bell. Considering the amount of times he’s been here before, he’s surprised to find himself nervous, a feeling that abates the moment she opens the door.

She’s dressed in a denim shirt and black jeans, a pair of white wool slippers on her feet. She greets him with a kiss full on the mouth and encourages him in, squeezing past the bike in the hallway, the coats and technical running jackets hanging up alongside. He can smell something tempting cooking on the hob; soft music is playing in the background.

‘Shall I open this?’ she asks, holding the bottle of red that he’s brought.

‘Yep, do,’ he replies, and she reaches up, getting a glass down from the shelf. ‘You staying?’ she asks.

‘I hope so.’

And she smiles and pours him a generous serving, handing it to him, then picking up the tall glass in front of her. He can’t tell what’s in it, beyond ice and something clear, bubbling against the sides.

‘How was your day?’ she asks, and gestures for them to go through to the lounge. She sinks down on one of the sofas and he joins her. ‘You still working on the Jonathan Miller case?’