Robin stops and sits back in his chair. He’s assumed her unusual demeanour is a result of his influence. His less than cheery manner, driving the poor woman down. But maybe it isn’t that. He’s known DCs committed to an investigation, but this has been next level. She seems… emotionally invested.

He remembers her crying when they had to notify Amy Miller of Jonathan’s death. Her protestations that she knew him, sure, but not well. The supposed sickness the next day. The detailed knowledge that Jonathan Miller had had a mole removed six months before. He didn’t think much about it at the time. But now?

He leans forward, then types her address into Google, looking up the GPS coordinates. Then, testing his basic Excel skills to the limit, he tries a search. Nothing. He remembers Greg’s words, identical sequence of information, shortens the number and tries again.

And then he sees it.

And everything makes sense.

47

Freya hears the ring of her doorbell and looks up in surprise. Since viewing the video the day before, she hasn’t left the house. She barely slept, tossing and turning all night, debating what to do. Every now and again, going back to the laptop, rewinding, then starting from the beginning, hoping to see something different on the grainy black and white image. But she knows it’s him.

The doorbell rings again, and this time she gets up and walks to it. She looks through the spyhole, then jumps back. She stops, her hand over her mouth.

‘Freya! Open the door. I know you’re home.’

Shit. But she has no choice. Slowly, she pulls the lock back and opens it.

‘Sarge…’ she begins, but Butler steams his way past her into her house. She closes the door, then turns to face him. He has a pile of paper in his hand, and he thrusts it towards her.

‘It was you,’ he says. His eyes are narrowed, his stance defensive. She’s seen him this angry before, but never directed at her.

‘What are you…’ she starts, then looks at the paper in her hand. It’s a spreadsheet, rows of numbers, and then a printed-out map. Showing her address.

‘I compared the GPS coordinates logged from Jonathan’s car to the ones on his phone. And your address comes up. Over and over again. It was you. Don’t lie to me.’ Her boss shakes his head, furiously. ‘Not now.’

She walks past him into the kitchen and sits down at the table. He follows her.

‘I need an explanation, Freya,’ he says. ‘I need to know why I shouldn’t suspend you.’

‘Sit down,’ she says. He’s still standing in the doorway, staring at her. ‘Please, Sarge.’

He pauses for a second, then does as she asks.

‘Was it you?’ he asks. She nods, staring at the table. ‘Were you the woman having an affair with Jonathan Miller?’