Pictures load. Photographs of an older man, his face a mass of blood and bruises. A list of medical afflictions: broken eye socket, broken nose, broken ribs. This man took a beating at the hands of Jonathan’s best mate Kal. Then more photos, a woman this time.

She’s older, like the man, and a large black bruise takes over most of her left eye. It’s swollen shut, a cut running across her forehead. Robin frowns. So who’s this?

He starts to read, and everything becomes clear. He picks up the phone.

‘Greg?’ he says, as a monosyllabic voice answers. ‘The DNA in the car? Check for familial matches.’

57

Freya’s desperate for something to do. She can’t bear sitting at her desk any longer. She feels like Robin is always watching her, waiting for her to change her mind and turn him in. But nothing could be further from her thoughts.

She walks downstairs to the custody area. She knows PC Watts, now Sergeant Watts, is on duty but when she gets there, something is kicking off. There’s a man struggling, uniformed PCs on either side, as the custody sergeant does his best to book him into the system. The man swears profusely, and Freya watches as they all remain calm.

She’s always amazed by how smoothly the custody sergeants deal with the mess in front of them. She knows they’re a certain breed – older, happy not to be out on patrol, dealing with one scumbag at a time from the safety of their desk. She looks at Watts now – what hair he has left is grey, his large bulk resting on the tall chair as he types on the computer with two fingers. She wonders how many years he has to go before retirement, maybe two or three at most. He’s earned his peace and quiet down here, she thinks, although she’d go mad from the boredom.

The man stops shrieking and is taken away to his cell. Freya approaches the desk.

‘DC Freya West,’ she says. ‘We spoke earlier?’

‘Come round, come round,’ Watts replies, diverting her into his inner sanctum behind the plastic screens. ‘Sit down, you want tea?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Biscuit?’ He pulls a packet of chocolate Hobnobs from his desk drawer. ‘I save the good ones for the visits from the pretty detectives.’

He’s gently flirting, and Freya enjoys the banter. He’s old-school police, from the days before #MeToo: a guy untouched by compulsory inclusivity and diversity training. Freya takes his comment in the way in which it’s intended, and selects a biscuit with a smile.

‘You wanted to talk to me about a call-out two years ago?’ he says. ‘I can’t promise I’ll remember much.’

Freya shows him the photos. ‘Amy and Jonathan Miller. Domestic disturbance, possibly DV?’

He squints at their images through his thick glasses. ‘Okay, yes, vaguely. I remember her, at least.’