‘Right.’ Freya gets up and collects her laptop from her bag. She opens it and pulls up a document on the screen. ‘See, here. Two empty rolls and boxes of cling film.’ She looks up at him. ‘In the Miller recycling. That strike you as weird?’

‘Yeah, but why? What would you use it for?’

They both stare at each other for a second, neither daring to articulate what’s in their heads.

Then Freya says, ‘You don’t think…’

Robin nods. ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking. To wrap up a body.’

66

Robin doesn’t know what to say. It’s a theory, but how do they prove it?

He can make an intelligent guess at why Amy Miller would wrap her husband’s body in cling film: some sort of forensic countermeasure. A way of stopping skin and hair from the body spreading elsewhere. She’s not daft, he has to give her that.

Freya leaves, and Robin carries on clearing up the kitchen. If what they’re assuming is right, then… He can hardly bear the thought.

And when? Robin’s head is starting to hurt. There’s still so much of this case that doesn’t make sense.

He remembers Freya’s suggestion, about speaking to Liv, and picks up his phone and dials. It rings, then goes to voicemail, and he tries again. Then again. Eventually he gives up, carries a beer into the living room and slumps on the sofa. He switches the television on but he doesn’t watch it; he just rolls the case round in his head.

Freya’s convinced Amy Miller killed Jonathan, and even he has to agree, something isn’t right about the woman. But how? She has an alibi, and there’s no getting round that. If it was just one person’s word for it, then maybe, but CCTV has her working at her hotel all day, the restaurant confirming the night.

His phone rings and he jumps, then answers it.

‘Stop calling me,’ Liv snaps.

‘I need to speak to you. It’s about Amy.’

‘I’m not going to tell you any more about my sister.’

‘You know something’s up with her, Liv. Let me help her.’

‘Oh, piss off,’ she says. Robin expects her to hang up on him, but he can still hear the background noise. A thud, thud of bass, the chatter of people shouting over music.

‘Are you working?’ he asks.

‘I’m busy, Robin,’ he hears, and this time the phone disconnects.

He sits for a moment longer. Then he puts down his beer, pulls on his shoes and coat and walks out of the door.