As they moved gradually away from generalities, a nervousness became apparent beneath her air of easy sociability. She would jump in energetic agreement with something, then seem to withdraw, to pull back and look in on herself. It was as if she was playing a part for the first time, playing herself. Perhaps they both were. Is this how it starts? he wondered. Testing the water, seeing where the attraction might lead? Or was it the opposite, the defensiveness of people too hurt to try again? This is what it must be like, he told himself, recalling that his last taste of romance had been massively drunken farewell sex with his ex-wife over a year ago.

‘This is a great pub,’ he said, starting in on his third pint, or was it his fourth?

He’d begun to relax now. In her company it wasn’t difficult. She was an attentive listener, lively in a way, but also coy, guarded. Plus, she was matching him drink for drink.

‘I live just down the road. I come here from time to time, but not regularly.’

‘Cheaper to drink at home.’

‘Well, I suppose it is…’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just something I heard the other day. A woman told me she drank on her own at home because it was cheaper.’

‘Part of the investigation? No, forget that, I shouldn’t ask.’

Joe took a drink. He felt the beer coursing down his throat and into his stomach. The bar had become noisier and hotter. For a moment he was overcome by a wave of dizziness.

‘It doesn’t really matter now,’ he said, pressing his eyes closed for a moment. ‘I’m not heading the inquiry anymore.’

‘And the woman?’

The image of Jane Shaw came to him. The cigarettes. The vomit on the carpet. Mourning her son alone in that house behind the Brick.

‘I dunno, it seemed so sad, her sitting at home drinking alone because a pub’s too expensive.’

‘Was she a victim? I mean, perhaps she was scared to go out.’

He looked at her, confused.

‘Sorry,’ she added, so close to him now that their shoulders touched. ‘I really shouldn’t ask.’

He leant against the bar, feeling himself sink into it. He thought about her, couldn’t stop himself: Jane Shaw on her own, a can of cheap cider in her hand, cigarettes, a TV screen for company.

‘Her son died,’ he said. ‘Now she’s got nobody. She’s at home getting pissed on her own.’

‘Joe,’ she said, reaching down and squeezing his hand, ‘this is work. You don’t have to talk about it.’

He let her hand remain there. It felt good. The fingers were bare, no rings. He wondered whether there ever had been. All the usual shit that goes through a bloke’s mind. Yet the thought of Jane Shaw, alone in her house, tonight, every night, was impossible to forget.