‘Stef, I used to say that to people when I was on the pull in straight bars. Can’t I just grab a muffin?’

‘Was that their reply?’

Daniells grins. Reaches over and squeezes his husband’s hand. Stefan is a doctor, and a few years older than the small, plump detective constable. He’s a lot more stylish too. Daniells always wears the same creased blue suit and pale-blue shirt, and usually looks a little clammy, as if he has recently exerted himself. There is a blob of yoghurt on his lapel, which Stefan dutifully wipes away with a wet wipe from the glove box.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Daniells grins, leaning over to kiss his tall, tanned, grey-haired partner.

‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ replies Stefan with a smile. He stares through the glass and something about the view seems to sap him of energy. ‘Desolate spot, isn’t it?’

‘Windswept and interesting, I think that’s the phrase.’

‘A woman, you said?’

‘Dymphna Lowell. I’ve been reading her Facebook page. Nice lady. I think she’s got a daughter and a granddaughter. Lots of five-star reviews.’

‘And somebody’s killed her? Why would anybody do that?’

Daniells shakes his head, a little smile on his face. ‘I don’t know, love. Maybe the police will find that out.’

Stefan doesn’t respond. Just looks out into the slowly evaporating darkness. ‘There he is,’ says Stefan, approvingly. ‘The warrior poet. Hamish McGoldenbollocks. God, he’s like a Greek statue, isn’t he? It would almost be worth getting murdered just to have him trying to do justice to your memory.’

Daniells gives a mock shiver. ‘Don’t,’ he says, and his voice sounds sharper than he intended. ‘He wouldn’t like you making fun.’

Stefan laughs, as if at a shared joke. Then his face hardens, as he realizes Daniells is being serious. ‘Oh sorry, wouldn’t want to offend your hero. Christ, Andy, why don’t you write his name on your pencil case and put his poster up in your locker?’

Daniells screws up his face. There are a lot of things he’d like to say to Stefan. A lot of backed-up frustrations that he would like to vent. But he knows they won’t make a difference. His husband is the jealous type: an alpha male who automatically needs to compare himself to anybody who might be held in high regard. It puts a strain on what is an otherwise happy union. Daniells, a natural peacemaker, softens his eyes. ‘He only has eyes for his wife,’ he says, kindly. Then he considers it. ‘And maybe the boss. Or maybe not. It’s hard to tell. But I don’t think I’m his type. And he’s not mine. He’s just, I dunno … good at all this. Just good in general. He’s one of those earnest types who don’t make you want to vomit. You should get to know him.’

Stefan snorts, as if the idea is ridiculous. Cranes his neck. ‘Pharaoh’s giving him a roasting, by the looks of it. Finger wagging and all sorts.’

‘She’ll be hungover,’ says Daniells, dismissively. ‘She likes shouting at him. I think it’s the biggest thrill she gets.’