‘He was reluctant at first. I thought he was just shy, but he stayed away. His wife was into it, though – came over, started kissing me, took my clothes off.’

‘Where was he?’

‘He watched. Then she got a few drinks down him and he seemed to relax. Gave him a blow job. Then he did his wife from behind while she kissed me.’

She looks over quickly, wondering whether she’s given too much detail.

‘So, he didn’t…’

‘Fuck me? No. Still asked for the full amount, though. No refunds.’

‘And the wife paid?’ Robin gets his phone out and shows Liv a photo of Amy Miller. ‘That her?’

Liv squints at it. ‘Yeah, that’s her. Real Stepford Wife sort. Controlling.’

‘Interesting,’ Robin says. To his surprise he notices another pint has gone while they’ve been talking. ‘Assume you won’t come down to the station and give us a statement?’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Liv replies. ‘Now buy me a drink. And let’s talk about something else.’

He does as she asks. And he finds himself enjoying their conversation. Despite their professions being seemingly at odds with each other, they talk, as Robin moves from pints to whisky.

They go outside for a smoke, Robin sharing Liv’s cigarette. They pass it to and fro, huddling together in the cold autumn air.

And then the alcohol takes over and – nothing.

He wakes with an acidic taste in his mouth and a skull-splitting thump in his head. He opens his eyes. He’s at home, in his bed, in his boxers, the duvet askew. He looks around the room, wincing. And then he sees it – a black lacy bra, draped over the back of the chair, a navy dress next to it.

‘Oh…’ Robin groans. Nothing else comes out. He couldn’t have, could he? Surely not. He lies back on the pillow, praying for the pain in his head to subside and some sort of memory to come back. He can remember the bar. He can remember them talking. Him drinking. Far, far too much. Then… nothing.

‘Oh, shit,’ he mutters again.

He can’t have slept with a prostitute. Detective sergeants simply can’t go around shagging toms. It’s an investigation from Professional Standards, a warning at best. How could this have happened?

He hears footsteps on the stairs, then the bedroom door opens and she walks in. Liv’s wearing one of his T-shirts, her legs bare, her hair loose around her face. She has a cup of tea in her hand.

‘You’re awake,’ she says, and sits at the end of the bed, sipping at her mug. She smells of cigarettes, and it makes his stomach turn, although he acknowledges he can’t smell too good either if the taste in his mouth is anything to go by.

‘I’m sorry,’ he starts.

‘What for?’ She gives him a small smile.