The waitress brought over their drinks, smiling at Mac. The ice cubes in their glasses of lemonade clinked as they both took a sip. A frivolous sound, unsuited to a grieving widow and a career copper put out to pasture.

“So what are you going to do?”

He put down his glass. “Get under Peggy’s feet. Help Harry get ready for university.” His laugh was hollow. “What about you?”

“I can’t sit around at home. I just can’t.” That hot pricking behind her eyes again. She took another sip of her drink because it was a way to stop herself from falling into the dark spaces.

“I know, lass,” he said, all his decades down south not quite drowning out the music of the Tyne. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching a small boat meander home to the jetty. A jabber of swallows or swifts, she could never remember the difference, swooped and spiraled above the water, an aerial ballet.

“I don’t know what more I could have done,” he said, and Wildeve had to lean forward to catch the shape of his words. “But we’ve missed something important.”

“No persons of interest?” She knew the team would have checked out anyone with convictions for violence or sexual assault, but she wanted Mac to confirm it.

“Nothing, or at least, nothing relevant.” He sighed again. “There’s nothing you or I can do about it now, though. We’re out of the game.”

Wildeve pushed the police statements and a photocopy of the faded newspaper clipping that she had found at home across the table.

Mac stared at them. “What’s this?”

“I found them in Adam’s things.”

Mac scanned the paperwork while she talked, determined to convince him. “We need to speak to a man called Trefor Lovell. He’s expecting me this afternoon. He owns the shop now. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.”

He looked up. “You know we can’t do that. We’re off the job.” He gave another laugh, laced with bitterness. “And, in my case, out of the police.”

“Why can’t we?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“Guv, they’ve treated you like shit. And you’ve left Essex Police now, remember?”

“I know that.” His delivery was considered, as if weighing up the consequences of what she was suggesting.

“We won’t tread on anyone’s toes. We’d just be—”

“—interfering with an investigation.”

“Of course not. We’ll be discreet. We won’t get in anyone’s way. We’re only going to ask a few questions, that’s all.” She spoke quietly. “I need to do this. For Adam.”

Mac stared out across the reservoir, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He drained his drink, pushed back his chair and stood up. Pulling out his wallet, he placed a ten-pound note on the table.