They headed north to the M11; the old Volvo rattled over the motorway sleeper line as they pulled out of the slip lane undertaking a convoy of lorries. There was no satnav, just a wooden-panelled glove box, an analogue radio and various other bulky dials and buttons. The temperature was set to cold but the ventilators were still pumping out hot air as if the engine were the very bowels of Hell itself.

Georgie wriggled out of her body warmer.

‘There’s a map behind my seat,’ Charlie told her.

Georgie felt behind him and pulled out an AA Road Map from 2002, complete with dog-eared corners and faded cover. She opened it. For a moment, she froze. This belongs to William.

‘You’re looking for a village called Tome.’

A few moments later Georgie, recovered, settled on the right page. ‘Found it.’

‘Can you direct me once we get off the motorway?’

‘Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award,’ she quipped. ‘Take the next exit.’

*

Gail Woodbead sat in front of her iPad scanning the internet but so far there was nothing about Simeon’s murder. She didn’t like to, but she had to give the police credit – they were doing a good job of keeping it out of the papers.

She had slept at Tomas’s house for the past two nights – it was easier that way; there was so much to do, so much to talk about. And Andros, her husband of fifteen years, didn’t seem bothered. His initial jealously of Gail’s relationship with Tomas – which had meandered between professional, social and tactile familiarity over a number of years – had faded. Tomas lived in a three-story townhouse; he had a couple of spare rooms, one with its own bathroom. He had never married, although there had been girls from time to time. And boys, too. But nothing long term – Tomas’s work was too restrictive and the various partners Gail had seen come and go soon realised they would only ever be second best.

As for Gail, the child Andros craved – the one he probably deserved – had so far eluded them and when she had entered her forties an unsaid truth had passed between them: time was nearly up. It was no wonder that he’d hardly batted an eyelid when she went to Tomas’s house – it felt like he’d already given up.

She looked across at Karl Jones, sat at a computer screen in the corner of Tomas’s living room. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink in days but somehow he was still playing World of Warcraft. It was a ridiculous game, but she felt slightly envious. At least Jones had his escapism. She wished she could replicate it for herself. Somehow, by immersing himself in a pixel-generated fantasy world, Jones had managed to forget that the magazine – and all their careers – was on the brink of extinction.

Or maybe he just wasn’t clever enough to work it out.