‘There were some pills on the side. Diazepam. Something else. I thought… I didn’t think. I ground them up with the back of a spoon and put some in her whisky.’

‘How much?’ Robin asks, his eyes wide.

Freya looks at the unconscious Amy. ‘A lot.’ Freya feels defiant. Justified. ‘It’s no more than she did to Jonathan.’

‘Fuck…’ he says. He stands up and starts pacing the living room, his hands on his head. ‘FUCK!’ he shouts, furiously, and Freya jumps. He turns back towards her. ‘And what do you think we’re going to do with her now?’

‘I don’t know!’ Freya reaches forward and touches Amy, then leaps back. ‘But she knows about you. She knows about Trevor Stevens.’

She watches Robin. He’s stopped pacing, silent now, looking down, thinking. She can see him chewing the inside of his lip. His gaze shifts to Amy Miller, slumped to one side on the couch.

‘Since we’re here,’ he says quietly, and she knows what he’s going to say. He continues: ‘We can’t leave any trace. Go to my car, get whatever PPE you can find out of the boot.’

Freya rushes out the front door. She returns with gloves, and shoe covers, and full white crime scene suits. They put them on in the living room, standing in front of the unconscious Amy, Freya still not convinced she’s not going to wake up any second.

And they start their search.

They begin in the bedroom. Robin remembers Liv’s instructions, and they pull away the baseboard of the wardrobe, quickly locating the life insurance documents. There are a few other items in there: a bundle of cash, some spare prescription medication and a small bottle with syrup of ipecac written on the side. Freya recalls Jon’s weight loss, his statement that he’d had a nasty bout of food poisoning, and feels the burn of anger towards Amy deep in her bones.

They put it all in evidence bags. Freya knows the continuity of exhibits will need to be falsified in some way, additional paperwork here, a forged signature there. But there’s no DVD. Nothing that might hold the CCTV footage from the garage.

‘Do you think she was bluffing?’ Freya asks Robin, and he shakes his head.

‘Even if she was, I can’t risk it.’

They start looking again. Freya’s only too aware they don’t know how long the drugs will hold. But she tries to keep her panic at bay, carefully checking and replacing belongings where they find them.

She leaves Robin upstairs, and goes back down to the living room. Amy hasn’t moved, still slumped on the sofa. Freya stands in front of her, looking at her slack features, her mouth open. Unguarded. Defenceless. She feels her heart start to beat faster. A wave of anger, adrenaline spiking. She’s never felt energy like it, fuelled by rage and hatred.