‘He’d been sober for over a year. And Trevor was one of the good ones. You know, the ones that took it seriously. I remember thinking, if he was drunk, there’d be no hope for the rest of us.’

Amy pours a large measure of gin, then a smaller one of tonic. She carries the glass back to the table, looking over Liv’s shoulder.

‘Says here they found the bits of a bottle of JD in the car.’

‘But that’s not right either.’ Liv looks up at Amy. ‘Alcoholics have a drink of choice. They stick to the same ones.’

Amy waves the G&T in Liv’s face. ‘So you wouldn’t want this, then?’

‘Fuck off, Amy. I just mean, ones we prefer. Trev was a vodka guy, maybe white wine if he was desperate. He wouldn’t have gone for a bottle of JD.’

‘People change,’ Amy comments as she sits down. ‘But why does this matter to me?’

Liv points, and Amy starts reading it out loud.

‘Trevor Stevens had been released from prison one year before the accident,’ she reads. ‘After killing local mother Georgia Riley and her two-year-old twin boys in a hit-and-run while intoxicated.’ She looks at Liv. ‘Not a nice guy then.’

Liv gestures to the newspaper article again. ‘Keep reading.’

Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Georgia Riley is survived by her husband Liam and her brother… oh shit.’ Amy looks at Liv, then back to the paper. ‘And her brother Robin Butler.’

Liv raises her eyebrows at Amy. Amy feels a smile creep across her face.

‘What does this mean?’ Amy asks, but she knows already.

Liv shrugs wearily. ‘If you want your favourite detective distracted away from his investigation into your husband’s death,’ she says, ‘then I know how we can do it.’

27

By the time Robin gets to the station, it’s gone eleven. As usual, the incident room is a hive of activity, and Robin manages to make it in without anyone noticing. But not so Freya. She’s by his side the moment he sits down at his desk, handing him a coffee.

‘You were right about the camera,’ she says, without greeting. ‘Digital confirmed it transmits to a remote location – probably a laptop or a phone. And there’s nothing on his phone,’ she adds before he can ask.

‘No sign of the laptop?’

‘None,’ she replies, but he notices a slight hesitation.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she says.

He knows what she’s thinking: that he’s hungover, yet again. But he’s not. He knows he’s not. This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover. This… absence, in his head.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out two beer bottles, sealed separately in clear evidence bags. He passes them to Freya.

‘Send these to the lab. Get them to test the contents for drugs. Roofies, sedatives, anything.’

She looks at the labels. But she doesn’t ask.