Liv watches her go, feeling a burn of resentment. You’re so fucking lucky, Liv thinks. And for a woman whose husband has just died, she seems to be taking far too much joy from the whole process. She was like that at the memorial: milking the sympathy.

Liv stands up, collecting the coffee cups. But in her annoyance, she knocks Amy’s and it falls, coffee dregs cascading across the table.

‘Shit,’ she exclaims, as it soaks into the pile of post and junk mail, and races to get a cloth from the sink, dabbing at the mess.

Then she stops.

She looks at the document in her hand, corner now stained brown, and pulls it further out of the envelope. It’s official-looking, addressed to Amy, the logo of a known bank across the top.

Liv nervously glances towards the stairs. Then, coast clear, she starts to read.

55

Mrs Franklin remembers Robin.

‘DS Butler,’ she says as she opens her front door. She looks normal this afternoon – no silk, no lace, just jeans and a tight-fitting jumper. Robin introduces Freya and they all shake hands.

‘Bethany, please. You haven’t reconsidered my offer?’ she asks.

Robin shakes his head and Freya looks at him curiously.

‘First time for free,’ the woman laughs. ‘We always need more men. And attractive women,’ she says, turning her sights on Freya.

Robin grins as Freya turns red. ‘That’s okay, thank you,’ Freya stutters politely, as the woman shows them in.

The house has been transformed back into a boring semi-detached. No low lighting today, no condoms in bowls on the table or vibrators on the mantelpiece. Just plumped-up cushions on the sofa and family photos next to the television.

‘How is Emma doing?’ Robin asks, of the woman who received the head injury before.

‘She’s fine, thank you,’ Bethany replies. ‘She told her husband. He was angry at first, but he’s coming round. You never know, we might have a new member. Coffee, tea?’

‘No, thank you. And your son?’

‘On his best behaviour. At least, for now. He’s allowed out with his mates again from tonight, so we’ll see.’

They all sit down on the sofas. Robin can’t help wondering what they’d see if he took a black light to the material. He pushes the thought quickly out of his mind.

‘Now what did you want to talk about? You were very cryptic on the phone.’

‘We’re hoping you’ll remember a few clients of yours.’ Robin gets two photos out of his pocket and shows them to Bethany. ‘Amy and Jonathan Miller.’

She takes them and looks closely. ‘You know I can’t break confidentiality,’ she says, but Robin notices a flicker of interest.

‘Jonathan Miller’s dead. And we believe Amy Miller is involved. So any help you can offer would be much appreciated.’