‘Sorry, I don’t mean to suggest what you do isn’t … Getting justice for people after the terrible thing has happened—that’s still something.’

‘Yes, it’s something.’

They both stared at the tabletop for a few moments, letting the weight of that settle around them—settle enough that they could give themselves permission to talk about something else. Eventually, they got talking about a recent trial, about food, about their families.

Anita realised quite a few people had left by this time. It occurred to her that she could stay longer, and if he stayed longer (he was making no sign of leaving), it would just be the two of them.

She felt comfortable with Rohan. Really, she had to admit, she was attracted to him. He was a thoughtful man and certainly a very beautiful man. But the attraction felt incongruous, improper. This was the detective working on her friend’s murder. Even Anita—not renowned for the wisdom of her choices with romantic partners—could see that might not be a wise move at this point.

‘I should go,’ she announced abruptly and stood up.

‘Oh,’ Rohan said. ‘Sorry. Was it a mistake to talk about—’

‘No. You haven’t made any mistakes. I was up for talking about it. And thank you. It was good. Good to chat.’

She gave an awkward farewell wave and slipped out towards the street. Good to chat? Chat? What sort of ludicrous way was that to describe the exchange they’d just had? Sometimes Anita reckoned she had the social skills of gormless fourteen-year-old.

On the bus home, she texted Paula.

Went to the pub tonight and talked like a regular human being. A xx

I’m proud of you. P xx

Anita decided not to mention her conversation with Rohan. Instead, she texted: It’s good to get out of the house. Shall we find some live music to go to this weekend?

I’d love that. Call you tomorrow morning. Sleep well. P

By the time Paula received Anita’s text, she’d already accepted she wasn’t going to sleep well that night.

She was sitting in the kitchen, drinking ginger tea, scrolling around on her laptop. Since the funeral, she’d been methodically sifting through old photos of Stacey and Matt, hunting for the first hints of what was going to happen. This was her version of a hospital morbidity and mortality meeting, reviewing available evidence to understand what symptoms she’d missed, how she should have handled it better.

There was a shot taken in Stacey and Matt’s first year, in the garden of the house Anita, Paula and Stacey were renting together. Stacey and Matt were both so inconceivably young, with luminous skin and shining hair. Paula examined the curl of Matt’s mouth—the way the smile was always on the verge of turning into a self-pitying pout.