Johnny went to the kitchen and busied himself with plates and cutlery, while Kelly sat down at the table and peeled off her vile tights: the worst invention in the history of agonising fashion choices for women. He placed a large glass of red wine in front of her, and she sipped it, closing her eyes and letting go. For half of the year, the four French doors to the rear of the property that led to the terrace overlooking the river were thrown open. But now, in November, they were shut tight, and it changed the atmosphere of the place. Bright, fresh and breezy was replaced with a cosy glow from the fire in the living room.

He placed a plate in front of her and she stared into a baked sweet potato stuffed with chilli and topped with sour cream and chorizo. She didn’t speak for the next ten minutes. It was delicious, and she left nothing on the plate. She began to feel revitalised, and Johnny refilled her glass.

‘Why don’t you take that into the lounge and I’ll call you when the bath is ready?’

Instead, she got a blanket and went out onto the terrace overlooking the River Eamont. She closed the door behind her and snuggled into the blanket, lying on a recliner, listening to the river and allowing her thoughts to return to semi-normal. When running a serious investigation, it was easy to let it take over and never touch earth, instead sinking further and further into the work-hole, where she ate, slept and breathed the case. It was what she’d always been like before she met Johnny.

Light from the bathroom shone over the terrace and she stared into the distant blackness, trying to empty her head of images that shouldn’t be there. She was jolted when Johnny called out of the window that her bath was ready, and reluctantly peeled herself away from the recliner.

The water smelled perfumed, and she stripped her clothes off in front of him and got in, sinking into the bubbles. He sat beside the bath.

‘Wanna talk about it?’ he asked.

She slid under the water, and re-emerged wiping her hair back and rubbing her eyes, smudging mascara everywhere.

‘Can you pass my face wipes?’

He did so and she started cleaning off her make-up.

‘It’s early days. Ted reckons there were two attackers.’

She thought of Jordan and Millie Watson and how young they were to lose their mother. It was an unspeakable tragedy. No father ever expected to have to tell his children that Mum was never coming home. She thought of all the milestones in a young girl’s life: periods, boyfriends, breasts, hormones, tantrums, make-up and waxing; all the things where you needed your mother.