The shower room is empty, its usual occupants – keen commuter cyclists and gym goers – having finished and left hours ago. Luckily there’s some shower gel someone’s left behind, along with a semi-wet towel hanging over a radiator. Robin gets undressed, putting his clothes in a grubby pile, then gets into the shower. He washes his hair, wincing as the shower gel hits the cut on his eye, something also stinging at the back of his head. He gets out, wraps the towel round his middle, then stands in front of the steamed-up mirror, looking with fascination at the red and purple bruise across his stomach. He’s never been a man to get into fights, so this physical damage is new to him. Mentally, the battered, bruised, broken feeling is familiar, but this pain, and the tangible reason for it, makes a nice change.

He leans forward towards the mirror to look at his face, then hears a knock.

‘Can I come in? Are you decent?’

Robin glances down at the towel. ‘Sort of.’

A hand comes round the door holding something grey in a plastic bag. He takes it and rips open the covering, realising she’s collected a standard-issue police tracksuit, normally intended for those in custody.

He puts it on quickly, not wanting to think how appropriate this outfit actually is. One statement from her and he could be in one of these for real.

‘Dressed?’ Freya asks.

‘Done,’ he replies, socks and trainers back on his feet.

She pokes her head round the door, tentatively checking, then comes into the room. She passes him a small parcel wrapped up in a blue and white tea towel.

‘Persuaded the canteen to give me this. For your face.’

‘I think that ship has sailed,’ he says, but he holds the ice pack to his eye anyway. ‘Can you look at the back of my head? I think there’s something there too.’

‘Sit down.’ She gestures to a chair, and he does as she asks, bending forward. He feels gentle fingers exploring his scalp, working their way through his wet hair. It’s a pleasant feeling and he closes his eyes for a second, feeling another swell of tiredness.

‘There’s a bump, and yeah, a scab here too,’ Freya says at last.

Robin opens his eyes, then clamps the tea towel to his eye socket, standing back up. ‘Banged it against the wall when he hit me,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘You should see the other guy.’

Freya snorts. ‘I very much doubt it.’ She steps away from him. ‘I think you’ll live.’

‘Thank you, Freya.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘No, I mean…’ He pauses. ‘For everything. You know.’

He doesn’t need to say any more. She knows what he’s referring to. She just nods, then, to his surprise, steps forward and wraps her arms round him.