‘Sorry, Dachman,’ says McAvoy, inserting his bookmark between the pages. ‘Miles away.’

‘Hope there was a girl there with you, Jock. Big lump like you – you should be beating them off with a shitty stick.’

McAvoy looks appropriately appalled at the imagery. Manages a smile, so his housemate doesn’t think him rude. Gets a mumbled ‘for fuck’s sake’ in reply.

Dachman Buller is a tall, dark, slightly rumpled lad. He’s mixed race: half Algerian, half Lancastrian. The people of Hull seem to harbour no grudges about the North African hue to his skin, but the Lancashire accent has caused him one or two scrapes. He’s on the highly esteemed CID team run by Detective Superintendent Doug Roper: a slick operator with a reputation for getting the job done. He respects Roper’s record, and presumes he must be a good judge of character, though he hasn’t observed a great deal about his housemate to imply he deserves a place on an elite unit of detectives. He’s disorganized, loud and frequently bone-idle. The only time he seems to get passionate about anything is when Burnley are playing a match that matters to him, or he’s arguing with one, or both, of the ex-girlfriends. He has two sons, both around the same age, and both by different mums. He has little to do with the boys, and feels that as a consequence, he should be spared the indignity of paying more than the absolute minimum for their upkeep. McAvoy keeps telling himself to stay out of it: not to pry. He has a habit of getting too involved – of taking other people’s pain inside himself. And he presumes that Buller must be in pain – that there is a repressed agony, a secret trauma, that compels him to act with such caddish disregard towards his own flesh and blood. He cannot conceive of any other reason why a person would do anything other than the right thing.

‘I was saying, Jock … dinner, like. It’s really good, like. I mean, I’d pay a good chunk for this in a restaurant. But look, I’ve said before, don’t go thinking you’ve got to make enough for two, yeah? You do you, I’ll do me. I mean, we’re housemates, aren’t we? But, this coming in to find my tea in the microwave … it’s like …’

McAvoy looks back at the cover of his book, trying to spare Buller the awkwardness of having to meet his eye while he informs him that he’s being a bit smothering in his attentiveness. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Nor is it the first time that McAvoy has struggled to explain the concept of ‘being considerate’ to other people.

‘The butcher on Newland Avenue did us a deal,’ said McAvoy, quietly. ‘It was as cheap for four pounds of the braising steak as it was for two.’

‘And it’s not “us”, yeah, mate?’ says Buller, mopping up the last of his stew-and-dumplings with a slice of buttered brown bread. He has a bottle of beer open in front of him, a pile of papers and printouts piled up at his feet. He’s been playing a game on his phone while he’s been eating; smacking his lips and making appreciative noises and occasionally allowing his tie to fall in the gravy.