They had managed to find the perfect spot away from the weekend crowds. Sam had lain the tablecloth down in a field of buttercups not far from the spreading boughs of a horse chestnut tree, a mature beauty like a perfect scaled-up floret of broccoli. The view south was gloriously bucolic, a patchwork of fields and hedgerows little changed in hundreds of years. If he ignored the distant hum of traffic, it was possible to imagine he was in an England of the 1920s, with its traditional farm buildings and tumbledown cottages, rustic fences and horses grazing contentedly.

‘It seems like years since we’ve had a picnic,’ Sam said.

‘I think we have Claire to thank for this. And the weather,’ Gillard said. He stroked her dark hair, which was now shoulder-length, her fringe close to her shapely eyebrows. Sam had been quite quiet that morning, and he watched her as she laid out the food she had carefully prepared.

As they began to eat, he complimented her on the food, and rested his hand in hers. She smiled up at him. ‘Just for today, Craig, I don’t want to talk about the bad stuff. I want to forget it happened. I want to imagine we are in a time before it, okay?’

He nodded. ‘That’s absolutely fine by me. I would be happy if we never mentioned him again.’ Sam had told her husband the bare minimum about her ordeal during the kidnap, but the group PTSD talking therapy courses and the one-to-one cognitive behavioural sessions seemed to be working. Her medication had already been lowered, which was a good sign. His own key metric with Sam was how receptive she was to affection. She adored being embraced, and was now kissing him back when he nuzzled her neck or cheek, which he did at every opportunity. However, their sex life had been non-existent for a while now, and she froze if he attempted to initiate. While he understood, it didn’t make dealing with it any easier. He still desired her enormously but his main task, he felt, was to mask his frustration entirely so that she didn’t feel guilty.

‘Why don’t you tell me about your new detective, the Scottish doctor?’

‘Rainy. Ah, she’s not so new now but she’s doing very well. She’s got a tremendous brain and is pretty good at keeping Carl Hoskins in order.’

Sam laughed. ‘Someone has to, now that Colin’s gone.’ She knew DC Carl Hoskins pretty well from her time in the control room at Surrey police headquarters. The archetypal old-fashioned male chauvinist, softened considerably by his sense of humour. They both knew how much he missed his old mate Colin Hodges, who had died a few months ago.