She holds it up, and he does as he’s told. Swallows once, twice. She’s almost on top of him now, her face close to his, near enough to kiss him. She puts the bottle back to his lips. He takes a gulp, the last dregs gone, and she discards it on the floor where it lies on its side on the carpet.

She straddles him, her hands either side of his head, nails running through his hair. He wants to kiss her, but he can’t. He can’t. But then he realises it’s not horny he’s feeling now, it’s something else.

His head feels muddled. He’s tired, his eyes half closing. He forces them open, but he can’t focus. He wonders how much he’s had to drink. It wasn’t a lot, surely. Not enough to feel like this. Not enough to—

And the last thing he sees before he passes out is her face. Her eyes, watching him. Closely.

25

Wednesday

Robin wakes on the sofa. He pulls himself to a sitting position, stretching out his protesting neck and back. Light filters in from behind the curtains. It must be morning, but he has no idea of the time. His head is pounding, his mouth dry.

He squints at the empty beer bottles on the floor, one on its side. He didn’t drink that much, did he? He remembers Liv coming round, and glances about for any sign of her. But the house is silent, her coat gone from the back of the chair.

He’s fully dressed, and for that he’s relieved. So nothing happened, but what on earth… He searches his mind for any recollection of last night, but everything seems muddled and dark.

His phone rings and he searches around for it. He eventually pulls it out from the side of the sofa cushion and answers the call.

‘Sarge? Where are you?’

‘Home.’ Robin squints at the time: 9:56. Shit.

‘You just woken up?’

‘Yeah. I…’ He doesn’t know what to say. This doesn’t feel like a hangover, a level of confusion and memory loss that seems new. Yet… He struggles to articulate how he feels. He stands up, his phone still against his ear, listening as Freya chatters away. Apparently the cameras have been dusted for prints and compared to Jonathan Miller’s. It’s a match.

‘Any other prints?’ he asks, standing in his kitchen. He opens the recycling bin and looks inside. Two bottles, plus the two in the living room. Four wouldn’t be enough for this level of hangover, surely? Fuck, he needs to stop drinking.

‘All clear,’ Freya replies. ‘So it was Jonathan who planted the cameras.’

‘Give me half an hour,’ Robin says, then hangs up.