‘She should have left by now. She gets back on Friday,’ she told him. She thought she discerned a little trepidation in his question, and it quickly turned to relief when she replied. It was no bad thing, she thought, for a man to be held accountable by his daughter.

They walked to the landing site and chatted to the MRT member coordinating flights in and out. They could get on the next one.

They walked over to the dry stone wall, probably there for a hundred years, and Kelly leant on it, peering towards the lake. Wast Water was the most dramatic lake in the national park, or so she believed. It was the Scot, John Wilson, who’d described it as ‘The cradle of the storms … Where poets fear their self-created forms…’ and Jock, at the inn, had the words engraved above the bar. Of course, Kelly thought, he’d never promote English Romantic poetry, so he found a Scot. Good on him, he was a proud man. But, now, looking across the water, she knew that he was right. The deep glorious lake, in mocking silence, made you question your existence.

‘How you feeling?’ she asked Johnny.

‘Like shit,’ he replied.

‘You needed a blow-out?’ she asked.

‘Guess so.’ He glanced in the same direction, as if the lake would help his hangover. ‘Look, Kel. The trial. I gave them what they asked for, under oath.’

‘I know. You want to talk about this now?’ she asked.

‘Why not? We’ve got nothing else to do apart from wait for a helicopter ride. Maybe we can discuss it without arguing. The outcome wasn’t changed by what I said in court.’

‘Yes, it was. It could influence the prison term he gets. Everyone knows he’s guilty as hell, but the press love a good story, and the squabbling between the lead detective and her lover was more important to them than the actual trial. It was unhelpful,’ she said. She fixed her stare on the mountain screes, unmoved by their bickering. ‘And now this.’

‘You’re a local legend,’ he said.

‘Oh, please,’ she sniffed.

‘You are. If anything, I’ve served as the baddie, alongside Ian Burton. You’ve come out a champion of righteousness and now you’re the right person for this task, too. The press will be on your side.’

‘It’s not about sides. And I’ve never wagged my virtuous finger over you.’ She felt herself getting angry and was reminded of why she’d asked him to leave home. This wasn’t about who had the upper fucking hand, it was simple: it was about right and wrong. End of. She turned to him, her back against the uneven wall.