But she wasn’t like Liv or her mother. She wasn’t. She didn’t do it for money; she had enough of that. Sex can get you where you want; that’s something neither of them ever understood. Amy thinks of her mother, dying alone on the sticky lino floor of that council flat. Lying there for days, until the smell alerted the neighbour. That will never be her, Amy tells herself, looking round her pristine kitchen.

The crime scene officers have gone now, and Amy resolves to spend the day doing another deep clean. They didn’t leave too much of a mess, but Amy can still sense them in her house. Touching her things, looking for evidence. How ridiculous. As if they would find anything.

They’ve taken her pills, though. That is a pain. She’ll need to go out today, refill the prescription. There is no way she can do without those for long.

Amy stands up and pulls one of the cookbooks from the shelf, turning to the middle page. She takes out the newspaper clipping that she stored there, the one Liv had stolen from that detective. The complaint doesn’t seem to have put him off, but everyone has their weaknesses, and she wonders about his.

She picks up her phone and does a quick search. Trevor Stevens car accident. Multiple results fill the screen and she reads a few of them, topping up her wine as she goes. Liv was right; Stevens was made out to be a virtual saint. A picture of redemption and newly renewed zest for life. She snorts. No such thing.

One of the news reports mentions a sighting at the local petrol station before the crash, and a request for witnesses to come forward. She pulls up the site of the accident on the map.

There’s a petrol station less than a mile away. Amy wonders what the articles aren’t saying, and what more they could tell her. She dials the number.

An old man picks up, his voice full of age and tremor. She says hello, mentions the accident, but before she can go any further, he interrupts.

‘Are you a colleague of DC West’s? I meant to call you.’

So that detective, the blonde one, has been speaking to him. How interesting.

‘I work with Detective West, yes,’ Amy says without missing a beat. ‘Have you found anything new?’

‘Yes, actually. My grandson, well, he managed to track down those witnesses on the CCTV. The ones that were in that day? All digital, you know, nothing I understand.’

‘He did?’

‘Yeah, the couple? I can send a photo of their credit card information across—’

‘Actually, I’ll come to you,’ Amy says quickly. ‘Detective West doesn’t trust email, she says anyone can get access to it.’

The man chuckles. ‘Couldn’t agree more.’