Thinking back, he could remember what she had looked like when he first interviewed her about the disappearance of her husband, Donny Maguire. And now she was barely even recognizable as the neat, petite, controlled housewife of over a decade ago.

He saw his DS, Paddy Hopkins, who was big as a bear but moved with speed and precision, politely hopping to his feet and holding out a chair for the woman. She sat down, leaning forward as if this was urgent when it was all dead and gone. Farmer felt fortunate that she no longer sought him out to discuss it. He’d passed it on to Paddy some years back, and now she fastened her attention onto that poor sap, leaving Farmer to crack on with bigger business.

Farmer was a Detective Inspector now, having flown through his DI exams and passed with flying colours. DI Hunter had moved stations, leaving a gap that Farmer was now ably filling. He was doing fine, solving cases, getting results. Feeling pretty good about his life, really. And then Fiona Maguire came shambling in looking more and more like a bag lady every week, and he felt his innards literally shrink with guilt.

That poor bitch, he thought, watching her.

The neat hairstyles of yesteryear were long gone. Now her hair was frizzed out like she’d stuck her fingers into an electric socket. Uncombed, unwashed. Her face looked somehow frantic, like this was something she had to do, every week, time after time after time. The carefully applied make-up was no more. She wore a blouse that was buttoned up wrong, and there was smear of sauce or something on the front of it. She’d lost weight. Her tights were laddered, her shoes muddy. The outer shell was a clear sign he knew of all that inner distress, and he was doing precisely nothing about it.

And the kids, he wondered. What had happened to them, with this for a parent?

He didn’t have kids, himself, but one day he supposed that would be the plan. He barely even had time for relationships. He’d had girlfriends. One had lasted two years before she got tired of his dedication to the job and walked. Currently, he was single. And he was content enough. But then once again he saw the wreckage of Fiona Maguire and he thought, Yeah, mate, count yourself lucky. Look at that and take it as a warning. This is what loving someone does to you. It kills you. Very, very slowly.

Fiona sat there for nearly half an hour with Paddy, talking; Paddy was taking notes, nodding, his expression serious, helpful. After every visit, Farmer saw Paddy screw the paper he’d written on up, then toss it into the bin. There were many other similar cases to Fiona’s, sad ones, people half demented or drugged up or desperately lonely and needing a chat, someone to listen to their worries. Those people wandered through the station day upon day. But this one affected Farmer the most. Fiona Maguire’s anguish was real, and it was just scrapped.