‘He came to see me – Trevor Stevens.’ Freya nods; she must have worked that bit out too. ‘He talked about redemption, and forgiveness, and God, and I couldn’t stand it. I refused to let him in the house. He shouted all of this through the door.’ Robin takes another swig of wine. ‘And then he said that he was rebuilding his life. That he was going to AA and making amends. And all I could think was, you can’t bring Georgia or the boys back, can you?’

Robin reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He opens it and takes out a worn, folded photo, putting it in front of Freya. He noticed that the newspaper article he’d kept was gone. Taken, he assumes, by Olivia Cross. Stored as a reminder of what he’d done, that he must never go to those depths again. But this photo, thankfully, Liv left.

‘That’s them,’ he says. She looks at it, then back at him. ‘That’s my sister Georgia, and Alex and James.’ He points to each one in turn. ‘They’re dead, and he was alive, and happy.’ He meets Freya’s gaze. ‘He was fucking happy, Freya, happy. I couldn’t stand it. So that’s when I started following him.’

‘To do what?’ Freya asks.

‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head, correcting himself. ‘I did know. I wanted to catch him doing something illegal. Arrest him for breaching the terms of his parole. Get him sent back to prison.’

Freya’s staring at the photo now, her finger tracing their faces.

‘So I followed him,’ he repeats. ‘Not all the time, just when I could. He was dull. He went to the supermarket, to his AA meetings, nothing untoward. And then that Friday I watched him go into an off-licence and buy the Jack Daniel’s. I shadowed him to an underground car park, and watched him drink the whole bloody thing.’ He glances at Freya. Her eyes are locked on him, barely blinking. ‘Then he started his engine. I couldn’t believe he was driving drunk again, Freya. So I trailed him to that petrol station. I wanted – no – I had to confront him. I was furious. But then he didn’t recognise me.’

‘Weren’t you at his court case, at the sentencing?’

‘Yeah.’ Robin nods and swallows more wine. It burns at the back of his throat. ‘But it was clear he was pissed. He was holding it together well, but his eyes were all over the place.’

She frowns. ‘There was no evidence of that in the path report…’

‘I know, I read it. But he was, I swear. I watched him drink it. I could smell it on him. And the anger…’