He points down – same thing a few lines below.

‘Happens weekly,’ Robin says. ‘Then stops about a month before Jonathan’s death.’

‘Who are they?’ Freya asks.

‘Before you started with me, I was called out to a possible GBH,’ Robin replies. ‘Turns out it was a swingers’ club.’ Freya raises her eyebrows in surprise. He taps on the monitor. ‘That was these guys.’

Freya frowns. She looks at the screen, then back to Robin.

‘I hate to say it,’ Robin says quietly. ‘But it looks like Jonathan Miller might have been into weird sex stuff after all.’

54

Liv stands outside Amy’s house and rings the doorbell again. She pulls her coat tighter round herself and shivers. The weather has grown cold, leaves now red and yellow, falling fast. The wind whips across the estate.

She looks around the cul-de-sac. It’s modern, but dull. Liv can’t understand why Amy would aspire to live somewhere like this. She dreams of a small cottage in the countryside. Thick oak beams, uneven floorboards, an open fire. Somewhere with character and life, not dead and empty like here.

But she still feels that flash of jealousy. She loves her own little house, and she’s proud of it. But how she got the money to put down the deposit, not so much. Every pound, every penny hard-earned with her own flesh. Fucked, sucked and pounded out of her, piece by painful piece. What she wouldn’t give to have had Amy’s life over the past fifteen years.

The door opens at last and Amy stands in front of her. Liv blinks at her normally pristine sister. Her eyes are half-closed, her hair rumpled, a fluffy white robe wrapped around her.

‘What do you want?’ Amy slurs.

‘Are you drunk?’ Liv asks, confused. It’s nearly lunchtime, early even for Amy.

‘No, my pills…’ Amy says slowly, ‘not worn off yet.’ She makes a vague gesture towards the inside of the house.

Liv takes it as an invitation inside and pushes past her. Amy shuts the door, then collects her post from the mat, shuffling into the kitchen and slumping at the table. She starts opening the envelopes, pushing the junk mail aside.

‘Make me some coffee,’ Amy mutters and Liv scowls, but turns on the expensive Nespresso machine, waiting for it to warm up. ‘Guess what I did?’ she adds.

Liv turns back sharply. She recognises that tone. The smug satisfaction, the joy that can only come from Amy doing something mean. ‘What?’

‘I wrote and complained. About that detective, coming to your house.’

‘Amy! You didn’t.’

‘He can’t do that. Bully you in that way. I won’t have it.’ Amy points back to the machine. ‘Make my coffee,’ she adds, her voice completely devoid of worry.

‘He’ll get fired! And more to the point, I’ll get arrested!’

‘It was two days ago. Have you?’