Freya nods, slumping back on her chair and picking up the phone. Robin stares at her. Her normally glossy hair seems lank and unwashed, her face drawn. He knows he looks like crap at the best of times, but she’s winning the award today.

‘Freya,’ he whispers, getting her attention as she talks on the phone. He holds up his mug, silently asking her if she wants coffee. Making an effort. She smiles, her face tight, and holds her hand in a thumbs up.

It’s the first smile he’s seen from her all day, but he’ll take it.

11

Amy’s hands are still shaking an hour later. She gets back from the police station, shuts the front door behind her, then stands in her hallway, breathing heavily. She’s home. She can relax now.

She walks through to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. She takes a teabag from the cupboard, camomile and lemon, carefully putting it in a mug, the tag hanging over the left-hand side, handle on the right. As the kettle boils she mentally runs through the conversation with the detective.

She doesn’t like him. He shows little understanding for her, his generic sympathetic words ringing insincere in her ears. She guesses him about the same age as Jonathan was, maybe slightly older, but unlike Jonathan he has marked frown lines between his eyebrows, mouth always turned down. She felt him watching her, judging, with those unnerving brown-green eyes.

She picks up her mobile and clicks on the top number in her recent calls. She listens to it ring three, four times, then it’s answered, the woman’s voice slow and tired.

‘It’s early, Amy,’ her sister says. Amy’s unsurprised by her sister’s coldness; their relationship has never been easy. But Amy has nobody else to speak to – their mother is dead, she has no friends. And whose fault is that? Amy can almost hear her sister comment.

‘I’ve just got back from my police interview,’ Amy replies. ‘They think it was me.’

A sigh at the other end of the phone. Amy hears the rustling of bedcovers, knows her sister has probably just woken up, even though it’s nearly lunchtime.

‘Why would they think that?’ she asks patiently.

‘The questions he asked, the look on his face.’ Amy pours the boiled water into her mug then carries it to sit at the kitchen table. ‘They’re going to be in contact with you to check we were out for dinner Monday night.’

‘Fine.’ More rustling. ‘The restaurant will confirm too, Amy. They say he died on Monday, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then. You have nothing to worry about.’ A pause. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m…’ Amy feels her throat narrow and takes a deep breath in. ‘I’m fine. Considering. Can you come over tonight?’

‘I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m working at the club. Tomorrow?’

Amy agrees and hangs up.