Then she tidied herself up, checked her reflection in the mirror, and left her house to go to the party. Fashionably late, when she knew everyone would be pissed out of their minds. Nobody would miss her husband. Everyone would believe her when she said he was over there, in the smoking area, talking to so-and-so. Self-absorbed pricks.

She went to the party, and she left her husband dead on the bedroom floor.

Late Friday night, in the early hours of the morning, she carefully transferred his body onto a hand trolley. It was one they used at work for moving the large sacks of food around, and slowly she manoeuvred it down the stairs and out into the garage. The freezer was standing by. Empty. Not too cold, to avoid the telltale signs of freezing, but chilly enough to slow down his decomposition. Panting with exertion, she lugged him inside and closed the lid.

The rest was easy in comparison. The posts on social media. Driving Jonathan’s car around – documenting his weekend trips. To the dump. Off for a walk. Then, Sunday morning, she moved him to one of the trolleys in the back of her van, ready for transport via the loading bay to the Premier Inn that Sunday night. She’d already checked into the room under a fake name, booking it out until Tuesday. Plenty of time.

And she knew Kal would do what she asked. She knew about his childhood, had listened to him tell the stories when he was drunk, growing maudlin and weepy. She just needed to push the right buttons, make it look like Jonathan was an abuser. And he helped her, as she knew he would.

The chest freezer was turned up and loaded with food. Back to normal.

It was perfect. Until these two started digging.

But she knows about them. She knows about Freya’s little secret – the affair with the victim, how she shouldn’t be working on this case.

And DS Butler? He acts like he is superior, but he is the same. He is a cold-blooded murderer, just like her.

DC West comes back into the room, three glasses of dark brown whisky balanced in her hands. She hands one to Amy.

‘I never was one for hard spirits, but I’ll make an exception for you two,’ Amy comments, taking a sip of the brown liquid.

‘I spoke to the old guy in the petrol station,’ Amy says to them both. ‘I pretended to be your colleague. He didn’t even ask for ID, silly old fool. He told me about the CCTV.’ Amy looks at Freya, takes another gulp of the whisky. This is nice, she thinks, why hasn’t she tried it before? ‘Where is that now, DC West? Do you have it?’

Freya just lowers her head to the floor. Beaten.