Steph leans closer to him. ‘Apparently there was an anonymous message. Someone emailed him this morning, questioning some of the findings from the original inquest.’

‘What findings?’

‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. But he wants to know if there’s anything in it, before he formally reopens the investigation.’

Robin can feel the blood rushing to his head. He feels dizzy, confused.

‘I know I shouldn’t have told you, but it’s your sister, Rob,’ Steph continues. ‘I didn’t want you to find out another way and realise that I’d been involved.’ She reaches over and takes his hand. ‘Given everything between us.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he manages. The words feel thick in his mouth. He clears his throat. ‘Thanks, Steph.’

He stands up, the chair making a sudden squeak against the low murmurs in the coffee shop. Steph reaches out to him, but he steps quickly away. ‘I need to go back to work. I’ll call you,’ he adds hastily, then rushes out.

He hurries quickly down the street, back to his car. Breathing heavily, too heavily, his heart beating fast, his hands starting to shake. His legs feel weak and he stops, his back against a wall, head down, his hands supporting him on his knees.

He can’t go back there. To the trial, the sentencing, the parole hearing. Every day, people talking about how his sister and the twins died. Constant reminders, of their pain, their last terrifying moments.

Trevor Stevens is dead. Good riddance. At the time, he thought, so that’s it. The line in the sand. He got what he deserved, and Robin could move on with his life.

But it’s back. And Robin has never been more terrified.

28

Freya walks the strange beer bottles down to the lab herself. As she goes, she looks at them through the clear plastic. Two normal glass bottles of Beck’s, a small amount of beer still sloshing in the bottom, some on the sides of the plastic bag. What on earth is going on with Butler?

He looks worse than normal. His skin has a grey pallor, more than a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. His shirt is crumpled, his hair barely combed. Something’s on his mind.

And as she walks back to her desk, he’s gone.

‘Have you seen Butler?’ she asks the DC sitting next to her.

Her colleague points to a yellow Post-it note left on her desk. WFH, it says, in his small scrappy handwriting.

Alright for some, she thinks.

Freya logs on, but before she does anything she sees an email from the DCI’s secretary. A meeting invite, for this afternoon – in an hour’s time. And in the subject heading: Strictly Confidential. Please do not notify DS Butler where you’re going.