‘Nothing that tied up. Minimal decomp, but low liver temp. So the honest answer is, I don’t know.’ She pauses, putting her knife and fork together on the plate. ‘Maybe tracking down this mistress is your best bet after all.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Robin replies with a smile. ‘Freya’s been through everything with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t exist.’

Steph shrugs. ‘I’m just saying,’ she replies, as the waiter clears their plates. ‘Take all your assumptions away. Look at it from a different angle. And who knows what you might find.’

She reaches across the table and takes his hands. Hers are soft and warm; her eyes shine in the candlelight. ‘Now, are we bothering with dessert, or shall we go somewhere else for a nightcap?’

Robin pays the bill. They get into his car. He starts the engine, his intention to drive to hers, but she stops him.

‘Let’s go to your place,’ she says.

‘My house?’

‘Yes, your house. Unless you have a canal boat or hunting lodge I don’t know about.’

They’ve never gone to his place before. Hers is nicer and, truth is, Robin likes it that way. He knows that the moment Steph steps in the door she’ll be creating a view of him that might not be favourable. Sure enough, as they walk into the hallway, he can see her taking in the tired decoration, the dated patterned wallpaper he’s never got round to replacing, the miscellaneous crap strewn about – spare screws in cereal bowls, receipts discarded on the side. It’s not that he’s actively untidy, more that he hasn’t had the energy to sort it. After work, it’s all he can do to slump on the sofa and make himself food. And nobody ever comes here anyway.

For the first time he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes, and it’s not pretty.

‘Coffee?’ he asks, and puts the kettle on, more as a way to distract than because he wants it. But then he feels her arms round his waist, and he turns to face her.

‘No, thank you,’ she says, and she leans up to kiss him.

He’s never done this sober. But it’s an experience he’s welcoming. They stay in the kitchen for a while, just kissing, her hands finding their way under his shirt, a soft caress up his back. But he wants to get into that dress. Taking it off standing next to his grubby cooker seems wrong, so he stops, and leads her slowly up to his bedroom.

There are clothes on his bed – the discarded tie, his dirty shirt from work – and he pushes them onto the floor. He mentally calculates the last time he washed his sheets – after the unmentionable night with Liv – and deems it acceptable.