“It’s a pleasure,” said Amy. “Research is one of my skills. Though I have many.” She gave a slow, flirtatious blink that Harper pretended not to see.

“Many skills,” said Harper, “hmm. You’ve certainly got a way with interviewees. From what I saw at Patrick Tranter’s house, anyway.”

A puzzled expression crossed Amy’s face. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but you’ve got it completely wrong.”

“I don’t know, Amy. What could I possibly be thinking, finding you at a man’s house looking like you’d just got out of the shower?”

“I had just got out of the shower. The one at the gym, where I’d just come from. Why, what did you think was going on?”

Harper paused, suddenly unsure. But she’d started now.

“Look, it’s nothing to do with me, what you need to do to get the job done. Even if sleeping with interviewees is not entirely ethical.”

Amy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking, right?”

There was a silence in which both women sipped from their drinks and looked in opposite directions. Harper tried to relax her shoulders; she could feel herself tensing up.

“If you must know,” said Amy, “he invited me round, so I thought he might have something useful to tell me about our case. He didn’t, though. In the end he just kept trying to sell me a marketing package for my freelance work.”

“But why were you still there the next day?”

Amy nearly choked on a mouthful of drink. “The next day? You think I’d been there all night?”

Harper studied Amy’s face. She wanted to believe her, so badly.

“But you said you couldn’t come with me to the old people’s home to see Victoria because you had an interview. I thought—I had a feeling—that you weren’t telling the truth. You never answered your phone, or sent me a message. And then the next day, there you were, in his kitchen. It was a complete shock. I just thought—”

“That is quite a leap.”

Now that she’d said it out loud, it did seem ridiculous to Harper. Amy and Patrick? She just couldn’t picture it. She started to feel rather silly.

“Oh, Amy, I’m such an idiot. I don’t know what to say …”

“He is so not my type,” said Amy, twirling her straw and licking a grain of salt from her margarita.

“So where were you? The night before, I mean.”

Amy dropped her eyes. Harper said, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry, I’m being a dick.”

Concentrating on her fingers as they picked at the edge of her beermat, Amy said, “No, it’s fine. You were right, I wasn’t seeing an interviewee. I was moving my stuff out of my partner’s place. My ex-partner’s place.”