Freya knew this would be tricky. How to explain to Trevor Stevens’ wife that they’re looking into his death again. And on a Sunday morning, at that. Freya sits in the overheated living room, perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, the wife opposite her.

‘We’re doing a review of all deaths down that stretch of the A32,’ Freya lies. ‘With a view to reducing the speed limit. And thank you for meeting me at such short notice,’ she continues, ‘but with my busy case load this is the only time I’m free.’

Stevens’ wife still looks confused, but nods slowly. She’s a tiny woman, her face shrivelled where time and grief have removed anything that might make her attractive. She has a skein of bright green wool next to her and two knitting needles, which she fingers nervously.

‘And Trevor was still attending AA meetings regularly,’ Freya prompts again.

‘Yes. Less than he was when he came out of prison, but still once or twice a week. And seeing his sponsor. Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She does, desperately, but doesn’t feel she wants to disturb this woman any more than she should. ‘Could I have the name of his sponsor?’ Freya asks.

The wife looks at Freya as if she’s stupid. ‘I don’t know his name. That’s why they call it anonymous.’

‘Right.’ Another dead end. ‘And how was Trevor feeling, around that time?’

‘Feeling?’

‘Depressed, happy, anything different to normal?’

The wife thinks for a moment, her lips puckering. ‘The accident, the first one, you know, took its toll on Trev. He took it bad.’ She picks up the knitting, as if to start again, then lowers it. ‘He blamed himself for that family dying.’

And so he should have, Freya thinks, but doesn’t say it. She spent the last evening going through the box related to the death of Robin’s sister. The investigation was brief. Initial hit-and-run, followed by a confession from Stevens. The evidence was clear: even though five hours had passed between the crash and Stevens turning himself in, he was still over the legal limit. Stevens’ massive Peugeot 3008 SUV had failed to stop at a red light and ploughed into the side of Georgia Riley’s tiny Suzuki Alto. They hadn’t stood a chance.

The photos were galling: the Suzuki pushed off the road, side caved in, barely recognisable as a car. Cones littered around; debris scattered across the tarmac.

In comparison, Stevens’ SUV seemed untouched.

The wife continues: ‘He thought it was an act of God that the judge only gave him three years in prison. He was desperate to make amends. He gave up drinking, joined AA, went to our local church. He sang in the choir. He had a lovely baritone.’

The wife beams at Freya and she forces a grin.