‘But the cashpoint … I don’t know – Frannie said –’

‘Frannie said what?’

‘Nothing. Forget it. We had drinks last night and she seems, I don’t know. Worried.’

‘You had drinks without me?’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he says. He pauses. ‘I did text that hotline, you know,’ he adds, partly to distract her, partly to confess, and she closes her eyes, just briefly, like an insect flapping its wings.

‘No.’

‘I did. They might trace the burner phone I used. Find everyone who bought one that day. They might have CCTV of the cashpoint by now. You know? They might know to come to us to swab us, when they find the body.’

‘We have to wait, Joe,’ she says. They hear a noise, towards the corner of the room. Cathy crosses the reception and pulls open the far consultation-room door. And there is Evan, standing. Listening to every single word.

44.

Cathy

Cathy jumps as she stares at Evan in horror.

Her panic is immediately interrupted by three rings of the buzzer outside. She turns and looks out of the window. A soaking-wet man in a navy-blue anorak is holding a French bulldog in his arms. There’s blood everywhere. Cathy is vaguely aware of Joe, who has his hands braced on the reception desk like he is about to be sick, but all she’s doing is moving to the door to let the man in. Not thinking of the search. Not thinking of Evan. Not thinking how everything has fallen apart in a single moment. The day after she got everything she wanted.

‘He’s been knocked over,’ the man says. ‘We’re not – this isn’t our vets’ – but please help.’ He’s young, maybe early twenties, blond. Instinct takes over for Cathy. She assesses the dog immediately. They need to operate. That much is clear.

‘Bring him in,’ she says.

The dog is prepped and under, cut open, internal bleeding stemmed, and Cathy is stitching him back up by the time it feels like there’s any space in which to think, and not just do. He’s going to lose a leg.

They need to speak to Evan, who is monitoring the anaesthesia, as all of the nurses have gone home. To explain.

‘What you heard …’ Cathy says, as Evan watches the dog and then adjusts the dial on the anaesthetic machine. His hand is shaking.

‘Let’s just concentrate on this,’ Evan says tightly.

What are they going to tell him? It’s all Cathy can think, as she stitches and checks, stitches and checks. The room smells of rust and iron. Joe holds her gaze across the table. He looks as lost as her. He isn’t doing anything at all. He’s abdicated. Cathy continues the operation while he watches, uselessly.

‘We will talk about it, though,’ Evan says. Cathy accidentally pulls a too-tight stitch across the dog’s abdomen which makes her wince.

She looks at Joe and he picks up the thread, working quietly alongside her, their hands performing a dance they can remember off by heart, like piano players, like sportsmen.