Ignoring my look of utter disbelief, she carried on. ‘We’re going to move in together, into his cottage. I stayed there for a few days over Christmas and we got on so well.’ So much for Christmas with the neighbour then?

‘What? You’re going to sell the house then? But said you didn’t want to sell it because you’d lived there with Dad?’

‘Well, your dad isn’t fucking here any more is he,’ she hissed, pouring another drink, the gin slopping over the edge. Her words were like a slap in the face, stinging as much as her palm. She finished her second shot of gin and poured another without hesitation. The bottle was almost half empty, obviously opened before her arrival. ‘I need someone to look after me. Patrick’s nice, and we have a laugh.’ I recoiled but she didn’t notice, barely pausing for breath. ‘I’m fifty-four this year and it’s time I put myself first.’

Swallowing the rest of my gin in one, I refilled my glass. It was going to be a long night.

Sunday 28 January 2018 – DC Becker

‘What the hell was that about?’ I hiss as soon as the interview room door closes behind us.

Hicks ignores me, carrying on down the corridor towards the kitchenette. I grab him by the arm, harder than I intend to, and his head whirls around. We stand in the doorway glaring at each other. He’s going to blow this whole case if he isn’t careful.

‘I said, what was all that about?’ I try again, my voice hushed as though we are sharing a secret.

‘I’m trying to get her to admit it.’

I roll my eyes. ‘She has admitted it!’ I hiss through gritted teeth, the vein in my neck pulsating.

‘It’s premeditated. I know it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I sigh. I’m too tired for this. I just need to get Lily sleeping through and then it’ll be better. Whose idea was it to have a baby at forty?

‘She knows it and I know it. It’s premeditated. I’m trying to break her.’ A fool’s errand is what it is, but as usual, Hicks is like a dog with a bone.

‘Just don’t fuck up the case. We need that interview recording, don’t make it inadmissible in court,’ I snap, rubbing the back of my neck. Sometimes he’s hard work.

He backs out of the kitchen, away from me, as though struck by an idea.

‘Where are you going now?’

‘Digging,’ he calls back over his shoulder.

I hurry after him, unable to let it go. He shoots me a look of contempt, fleeting, but I catch it. I don’t give a shit. After all these years the feeling is mutual.

‘You know I’m good at this. Give me one more go at her,’ he says, softer now, his eyes imploring.