“Just hold her,” she’d said to Patrick, and he’d tried. Lauren stomped viciously on his toe and he let go, then she flailed, shrieked, threw herself forward and fell badly on the concrete, everything slippery on the riverbank under the rainstorm, before being restrained by a team of police, a horrific mud-wrestle, the tragedy made lurid as the sun came out and threw rainbows onto the rippled, swollen surface of the Bishop.

Harper wrote an address on a page in her notebook and tore it out.

“Patrick?” He was still curled on the wet ground, hugging his knees. “You OK?”

For a while he just stared at her shoes. He took a breath. “Yeah. No.” Then he stood up, brushing grit from his damp behind, and took the note from her hand. “What’s this?”

“It’s the address of the psychiatric unit where they’ve taken your wife.”

He held it out in front of him, but he didn’t read it. “Has she been arrested?”

Patrick’s hair was stuck down by the rain—he rubbed at it now and shook his head like a dog, spraying droplets over Harper, whose sodden outfit was dry on the shoulders but still soaked everywhere else. The sun was strong; she felt it burning her face. Water evaporated in tendrils from her sleeves.

“No,” she said, “not at all. She’s been detained under the Mental Health Act. She’s not a criminal. She’s unwell. It’s a hospital.”

“But a secure unit?”

“For her own protection.”

“Oh.” Patrick looked down at the baby in the top car seat. Yellow vest. Morgan. The baby looked back at his father, unblinking. “So, what about the babies?”

“They’ll need to be checked by a doctor as soon as possible. I’ll escort you.”

A sweet, familiar fragrance drifted by. Amy, in an orange linen tunic, appeared at Harper’s elbow and smiled demurely at Patrick.

“Excuse me, Mr Tranter?”

“Just leave it a few minutes, Amy,” said Harper, “Mr Tranter is busy and doesn’t want to talk to journalists at the moment.”

“I’m sure Mr Tranter can make up his own mind, Sergeant.” Amy flashed her smile at Patrick again, but he just frowned slightly. “I’m from the Mail, Mr Tranter. I wonder if you’d like to have a chat? Maybe get a coffee? You must be parched, after everything that’s happened. Don’t you need a sit down?”

“Oh,” said Patrick, his eyes flicking to Amy’s cleavage and back to her face, before he blinked and gathered himself. “No, sorry. I need to sort my kids out.”

“I could just buy you a take-out? No pressure.”

Patrick, unbelievably, hesitated, appearing to consider the offer.