And in a flash, she understands why Robin killed Trevor Stevens. That anger, that rage. It’s what she’s feeling now, bubbling below the surface.

While she’s been thinking, Robin’s been scrolling through the other videos. She’s barely noticed as he’s moved through hours of nothing but the empty Miller study, and has now progressed on to the living room. There’s video as Jonathan Miller passes through, bag in hand, out to work on Friday morning. Then Amy Miller comes into shot.

They watch as she stands at the window, looking out at their driveway.

‘Waiting for Jonathan to leave?’ she asks Robin, but he doesn’t reply, his hand covering his mouth, his gaze locked on the screen.

She looks at it too, then freezes. Because what’s showing on the video is so strange, so bizarre, she can’t articulate it in words.

Freya opens and closes her mouth. She looks at the video then back to her boss.

‘What… the… fuck…?’ Robin whispers.

58

Wednesday

Kal lies motionless in the darkened room. It must be seven o’clock, maybe eight in the morning, he’s not sure. He’s been here for days, at home, doing nothing more than wander around his house. He called in sick to work on Monday. He can’t concentrate. He just thinks about him. About Jonathan.

He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He can just about manage to drink, whatever he can get his hands on, to take the thoughts away. He knows he needed to shower, but what is the point any more?

He thinks about calling the police. But even when the phone is in his hand, he can’t bring himself to do it. So when he hears the doorbell ring and pulls aside the curtain to see the blue and yellow of the patrol car, he feels a swell of relief. It’s out of his hands now. He knew they would come.

He walks slowly to the front door and opens it: two detectives wait – the man and woman who interviewed him in London that day. He doesn’t say anything, just moves out of the way of the door and gestures for them to come in.

The man’s wearing the same shit suit from days before. Even through his addled haze Kal still recognises cheap off-the-peg when he sees it. But then, who is he to judge? He knows he hasn’t cleaned his teeth; he can sense the smell of his own sour sweat.

The male detective is holding handcuffs.

‘Khalid Riaz,’ the woman begins, and he turns to look at her. ‘We are arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jonathan Miller. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’

He feels his wrists being pulled behind him, the cuffs fastened in place.