‘So, Khalid Riaz,’ she starts, pulling the case file out of her bag, as the train rattles out of the station. ‘Hedge fund manager, has worked at Sterling and Blake for twelve years, Goldman Sachs before that. Graduated 2001, same year as Jonathan Miller. They both studied economics.’

‘Okay,’ Robin says, passing her coffee back and looking over her shoulder at her scribbled notes. They’re pushed close together, and he gets a waft of her perfume, something delicate and floral. He puts his coffee up to his nose and takes a sip through the plastic lid, trying to block out the feeling the scent induces in him. What is it about women? he thinks. They always smell so bloody nice.

‘Best man at Miller’s wedding. All over social media, see?’ Freya holds her phone up in front of his face. He takes it, scrolling through the many photos this man posts: people, darkened clubs, women laughing.

‘Quite a social life,’ he replies, handing it back.

‘Exactly. What do you think he’ll be like?’

‘Arrogant prick, probably.’

‘Does he have a girlfriend, do you think?’ Freya adds.

‘Probably has many,’ Robin comments. ‘Men like him.’

‘Like what?’

‘You know. Attractive, money. Women love it.’

‘Do they?’ Freya gives him an amused look. ‘You know a lot about women, do you, Sarge?’

‘Only my limited experience.’

‘Limited? I’d have thought you got a lot of interest,’ Freya says. ‘All that brooding and scowling.’

Robin rolls his eyes at her, reluctantly enjoying her teasing. It’s clear that being away from the formality of the police station is doing their working relationship the world of good. After the tension of the last few days, Freya seems to have relaxed.

‘I don’t brood,’ he replies, only too conscious of the frown on his face. Freya chuckles quietly.

He looks around the carriage. No one seems to be paying them much attention, but you can never be sure. ‘We shouldn’t be discussing this here.’

‘Oh, okay, yes.’ Freya’s voice lowers to a loud whisper. ‘Do you want to see my list of questions?’

‘Go on then.’

She pulls out a piece of A4 paper and passes it to him. Neat lines typed and printed out. As he reads it, she pulls a Tube map out of her pocket.

‘Jubilee line to Canary Wharf,’ she says.

‘These are good,’ he confirms, handing the questions back. They are, and Robin feels guilty – he hasn’t even thought about it. He’s more of a wing-it-on-the-day sort of man. ‘How did the interview go with the sister last night?’

‘Yeah, as Amy Miller said. They met about seven thirty, Côte Brasserie on the High Street. Drinks and three courses, left at ten. I’m waiting for the restaurant to confirm, but seems tight. And I went to see the Millers’ neighbours this morning.’

‘You’ve been busy,’ Robin says, impressed.