Was Jon telling the truth when he said he was planning on leaving his wife? Was their affair just that? Something fun, to pass the time, while he carried on with his marriage? Trying to conceive, hoping to have a baby?

She blows her nose, then flushes the chain, washing away the foul reek of her vomit. Whatever the truth, she needs to get on with it. Get what she’s come here for.

Freya goes back into the living room, walking through and opening the door at the far end. And the moment she steps inside, it stops her in her tracks.

This room is different from the rest of the house. His office. It reminds her so much of him it physically hurts. More mess, more dust. There was always something dishevelled about Jon. His slightly curly hair had too much bounce to sit straight. His clothes were always coming untucked, a stray button undone. She’d never minded. They were holes she could poke her fingers into, touch the warm skin that lay underneath.

And this office – this is him. She starts her search, opening drawers, checking shelves. In his desk there’s notepads, Post-it notes, pens, spare phone chargers. She flicks through a few of the notebooks, in case he’s hidden a stray photo, but there’s nothing. A pair of his reading glasses, old ones she remembers him replacing early on in their relationship, lies on a shelf.

The smell of his aftershave, his jacket hanging behind the door, books on the desk he told her about. Just him. And she misses him, so much.

She can’t believe that all their shared moments were a lie. Not Jon. Not her Jon. He loved her. He was going to leave his wife for her. She knows that’s true, from her very core. Perhaps the baby books were from earlier in the marriage. Perhaps they were given to them by well-meaning friends, and forever ignored.

But she can’t think about that now.

Freya moves along. She knows what she’s looking for, anything that might give her away. Early in their relationship she would email him photographs. Of her, with next to nothing on. He’d laugh, red, embarrassed spots appearing on his cheeks, saying he’d have to get rid of them. But once, he confessed to deleting the emails but saving the photos on his laptop. Password-protected, hidden in a folder and safe from Amy. But not from the clever brains of the police’s digital department. If they got their hands on them, that would be it: they’d know and she’d be off the case. Probably fired. Not to mention the shame of her colleagues seeing photos of her with her tits out.