She attempts a smile, then her gaze shifts to the mugs.

‘You making one for me?’

‘You want one?’

‘Please.’

Tea made, they sit at Robin’s kitchen table in an awkward silence. He sweeps what seem to be prawn cracker crumbs onto the floor. What would Georgia think, looking at the state of him now? He knows what would be going through her mind. She’d look at him, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. Then she’d say, Pull yourself together, Rob, you’re embarrassing yourself.

He also knows what she’d say about him ignoring Liam. Georgia always was a better person than him. More patient, more forgiving. But for killing the twins? Never. He takes a sip of his tea. She would have died for those boys, a hundred times over. As would he, he realises.

But he also knows that deep down, a small part of the anger he feels towards Liam is fury at himself. The part he played in Trevor Stevens’ death pulls at him; it creates a constant state of conflict in his head. He is a police officer, through and through, and has been one for nearly twenty years. Yet look what he did.

Liam is no more than a convenient conduit for his rage.

He looks at Freya.

‘You up to this?’ he asks. ‘Going back to that house?’

She pushes her tea away. She knows what he’s talking about. She stands up, pulls her shoulders back, then looks at him.

‘Absolutely,’ she says.

The day is getting late. Rush hour traffic has abated, and they drive in silence through rain-drenched streets. They pull up outside ten Ashcroft Drive. The lights are switched off, the front window barricaded with cheap plywood where the vandals had got inside. Robin’s been informed that the owners have been and gone, inspecting the damage. They won’t be able to rent that place out again any time soon. Robin mentally schedules a visit out to their main residence tomorrow. It’s no doubt some posh place in the sticks, Robin and Freya playing the part of the all-important detectives who will reassure and pacify them. Meanwhile they have their orders from Baker: have a look around. Interview the neighbours. For fuck’s sake, do something, he exclaimed, in contrary to the scarce investigation that had come before.

Robin glances at the house next door, thinking about Amy Miller inside, then looks over at Freya.

‘You know we can’t arrest her this time,’ Robin says. ‘We’re still waiting on forensics. Nothing to justify a warrant until we hear back.’

‘We’ll just ask her about the break-in,’ Freya replies. ‘And then leave.’

They stare at the Miller house. They can see lights on; there’s a good chance she’s there. Robin turns and looks across to the empty field on the other side, to the dark silhouettes of sleeping bulldozers.