For so long, she had been alone. Functioning. Capable. An island. But Adam had thrown her a rope, and she had held on, tentatively at first. Allowed herself to scale it, little by little. Put her trust in the strength of this stranger whom she had come to love with a force she’d forgotten she had.

They had made her greedy, those glimpses of a life long forgotten, filled with the glitter of compassion and warmth and equality. A sense of coming home. She had grabbed for it, clung onto that rope with everything she possessed. But somewhere along the way she had taken it for granted. The rope had slackened. And here she was again, drifting on her own.

In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom upstairs were several boxes of painkillers.

Fifteen steps or so. And she could turn herself off.

The front doorbell rang.

It was so late. She ignored it.

Her mobile phone beeped.

It’s me. Open the door.

Mac.

She thought about ignoring him, but he pressed down on the bell again, and she knew he wouldn’t go away. Mac wasn’t a quitter.

He grinned at her and held up two white plastic bags, filled with food. In the kitchen, he unloaded containers of fragrant curries, pilau rice, tarka dahl, thick naan studded with coconut and raisins. Tall bottles of beer. Her mouth watered at the smell of spices and comfort.

“I knew you wouldn’t bother to eat,” he said. “And you don’t have to, but in case you’re hungry—”

She didn’t say much, but touched his arm to show her thanks.

“You get the plates,” he said, “and I’ll find a bottle opener.”

Her mouth was full of dust, but she managed a couple of spoonfuls of curry, some rice. Mac took a swig of beer. “Lovell’s hiding something.”

She shook her head. “No way. Sampson’s warned me off. I need this job, Mac.”

Mac tore off some flatbread, swiped it in his leftover sauce. “Look, I wouldn’t sanction breaking the rules, but there’s more at stake here than you realize. I—it’s not my place—but you have to trust me on this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t been entirely honest.”

She looked at him, surprised, but he met her gaze. Defiant, almost. Authoritative. As if he still occupied the role of her superior.

“I can’t tell you why,” he said. “It will compromise the investigation. But I will in due course, I promise.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Sampson’s blinkered, he’s gone off half-cocked after Lovell, probably because the old man was stupid enough to attack French, but my instinct tells me that although he’s holding something back, he’s not responsible for the murders.”