‘I might arrange a memorial instead then,’ Amy says quietly, almost to herself. She looks up at Freya. ‘People are asking when they can pay their respects.’

‘Of course, I understand,’ Freya replies. But she doesn’t. Why can’t you just wait, you devious cow? she thinks. Why are you so keen to have closure?

But instead, Freya says, ‘And tell us again about your weekend. What was Jonathan like? How was he acting?’

Freya listens as Amy Miller goes back over her movements across Jonathan’s last days. She knows these by heart by now, and nothing differs. Freya asks for more names from Khalid Riaz’s birthday party: Amy writes them down. Aware of the lack of food in Jonathan’s stomach when he died, they ask about his Saturday-night pizza: apparently he ate it all. Freya asks again about Amy’s whereabouts on the Monday and Tuesday, when Jonathan was dying in the Premier Inn, and Amy’s note-perfect. Again.

‘Had Jonathan ever mentioned trying something new? Sexually?’ Freya asks. She and Butler have already agreed not to mention the threesome, her sergeant filling her in on his conversation with the escort the other night, but they want to see how far Amy Miller will go. How much she’ll lie.

And, sure enough, Amy shakes her head. ‘Never, no.’

‘No sex toys, vibrators, that sort of thing?’

‘No. Not at all.’ The wife pauses. ‘Do you think someone else might have been there? In the hotel room?’

‘We don’t know much at this stage,’ Freya replies, dodging the question. ‘But we will leave no stone unturned, we promise.’

And with that last sentence, Freya was one hundred per cent sincere. No stone unturned, you nasty bitch, she thinks, the smile still plastered on her face.

They let Amy Miller go.

‘I honestly didn’t expect her to say yes,’ Freya says as the two of them watch her walk across the car park and climb into her white Audi. ‘What does that mean?’

Butler turns. ‘Either she’s got nothing to hide and we’re wrong about her. Or she’s arrogant enough to believe we won’t find anything.’

‘She might have disposed of it already,’ Freya suggests, following her boss back into the station. ‘And do we like the life insurance angle for a motive?’

‘Let’s try and get a warrant,’ Robin begins, pausing as they hear someone shout from reception.

‘Rob!’

They both turn, and Freya notices her skipper’s expression change at the sight of the man walking towards them. His eyes narrow, his shoulders immediately tense.

‘What are you doing here?’ he snaps.

The man’s tall and slim, short grey hair, dressed in a smart suit and tie.

‘You won’t return my calls, Rob, and I need to speak to you. You’re never home. What do you expect me to do?’