He looks fraught before the gruffness returns to his face. ‘Yardley fell in with some cops who were bad news. Ones who promised her the world in regard to her career. They’ve since been cleaned out of the force, but she was fed some bogus information here and there, and may have got a bit confused.’ He looks Oli straight in the eye; clearly this information isn’t common knowledge, and he’s trusting her with it. ‘But like I said to Yardley back then, even if the girls were selling nude photographs of themselves, I doubt it’s relevant to what happened.’

Oli considers this. Maybe it explains why Isabelle hid her diaries at the house. Maybe she didn’t know who to trust at work. But all she says to Bowman is, ‘What if it was linked to the prostitution?’

He seems to consider this. ‘Bring me anything you find. I’m always happy to chat.’ He checks his watch. ‘I hate to tell you this, Ms Groves, but it’s getting close to my bedtime. Old bastards like me need our rest.’

He insists on paying, and she waits at the door like a child.

Outside the cold air is shocking. Oli is surprised to discover it’s almost ten.

They face each other in the circle of light formed by the street lamp.

‘You’re a good journalist,’ Bowman says. ‘I wouldn’t have met with you if you weren’t. I’m not in the habit of wasting my time.’

‘Neither am I.’

He shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets and rocks on his feet. His white hair glows like a halo. ‘And also, I was curious,’ he admits.

Oli blinks, not sure if she heard correctly. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re nothing like her. Nothing like her at all.’ Bowman scans the street, his breath sending a thread of white steam skyward. ‘My wife died almost exactly twelve months before Yardley did. It was the worst year of my life. It’s stupid, really. I’m used to death. But, well, my wife, her sickness was very cruel. And then Yardley on top of that. It was, gah.’ He waves a hand as if he’s sick of himself talking, then forces a cough. ‘The guilt really knocked me for six. I used to think about it all the time, how she must have felt that morning. I always wonder if I could have done more to protect her.’

Oli observes the telltale face tics, the pull of his jaw. Watery eyes. She speaks hastily. ‘I’m sure that—’

‘Does he ever talk about her?’ Bowman’s grey eyes shine like marbles. ‘Has he told you what she’d decided?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Oli feels the world tilt. Her eyelids are heavy, and the sound of the cars sliding past on the wet asphalt makes her skin crawl.