‘Crawley joined the force same time as him. Said he was an alright guy then. Bit quiet, but alright. You know, few beers on a weekend, good bloke. But then a few years ago…’ Their voices lower further and Freya has to strain to hear them. ‘His sister and her kids died in this messed-up car accident, and after that he just went mental.’

She remembers the case, five years ago. It was discussed in whispers and glances in the incident room, a joint investigation between the CID and the SCIU, the Serious Collision Investigation Unit.

The PCs continue. ‘What?’ Mayhew asks. ‘Like Hulk mental?’

‘No, you wanker. Like shut down. Didn’t talk any more. Heard he spent a few weeks in the Priory, and then when he came out he wasn’t the same. Apparently his parents were already dead and the sister tipped him over the edge.’ Freya hears a small chuckle coming from the PCs, and clenches her jaw in anger. ‘You notice he won’t let anyone drive him anywhere, always has to take his shitty Volvo?’ Another snort of laughter. ‘That’s why.’

Freya grits her teeth. She wants to go in there, tell them off for being so insensitive, but she has no authority over them: she’s the same rank, despite her detective status. But another part of her, a shameful part, doesn’t want to defend him. To be associated with her sergeant’s gossip.

She quickly walks away and up the stairs to the bedroom, their words echoing in her ears. If it’s true, it explains a lot. Butler’s air of sadness, his reluctance to talk. She saw his house this morning. It was hardly the residence of someone functioning normally: mess, dirt, everywhere. She spotted the unpaid bills on the side, the carpet that can’t have seen a hoover in months.

She stands in the doorway to the master bedroom. In direct contrast to her boss’s house, this room is pristine. The bed has multiple throw pillows draped artistically across the covers, the duvet pulled tight. Like the rest of the house, it’s clean. Unnaturally so. She’s beginning to agree with Baker. They’re not going to find anything here.

She starts her search, going over the bedside tables, looking in drawers. It’s strange, going through her lover’s belongings in this way. She recognises jumpers he wore, shirts and T-shirts. One particular rugby shirt pulls her attention. It’s a faded blue one; she remembers it from their first walk in the woods and now takes it out of the wardrobe, pushing it against her face.

And it’s him.

The smell of him, the feel of the rough cotton, remembering the warmth of his chest when he wore it, and she starts to cry. It’s too much; she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be doing this.