Davis gave a sudden exclamation. Gemma and Meredith both looked up to see what he was looking at. His eyes were bulging out of his head with a sort of delighted awe as he seemed to drink Meredith in.

‘No way! I don’t believe it. It’s you, isn’t it! You’re Merry Heather! Fuck m— Um, sorry. I mean, wow, that’s amazing. I am a huge fan.’

Meredith felt the blood drain from her face. No. Surely not … Nobody, but nobody had recognised her in years! How could this guy, who didn’t even look old enough to have been buying records when the band were famous…?

For so long it was what she had been dreading more than anything; far more so since Iain’s phone call last year. She sat on her hands to stop them shaking. It’s OK, she told herself. If anyone’s going to recognise you, it’s good that it’s a policeman. Safe. Nothing bad will happen.

Gemma stood up, concerned. ‘Are you OK? You’ve gone a funny grey colour. Let me get you some water.’ She turned to Davis. ‘Merry Heather?’

‘Merry Heather!’ he crowed, slightly less effusively now that he’d witnessed Meredith’s shock. ‘Lead singer of Cohen, one of the best bands on the planet!’ The excitement in his tone ramped up again. ‘My big brother had all your records, and I really got into you through him. I don’t think I’d have made the connection though, if I hadn’t spotted that.’ He pointed at a mug on the coffee table, with the logo COHEN emblazoned on it. ‘You look very different.’

Yes, that was certainly her intention, Meredith thought, scowling at the offending mug. Pete had had it for so long, she’d forgotten it was there.

‘God, I adored you when I was a teenager.’ He was practically gushing now, and Meredith had the urge to punch him in the throat.

‘It was a very long time ago,’ she said eventually, in a voice that she hoped did not invite further discussion. ‘I don’t talk about it. It’s all in the past now.’

Gemma had found a glass on the draining board and filled it. She brought it over and handed it to Meredith who took an obedient sip, but Gemma hadn’t let the tap run first and the water tasted warm and brackish.

Meredith still couldn’t figure out, even with the aide-memoire of the mug, how Davis could have made the connection. In the band’s heyday she had resembled a female Robert Smith from The Cure, with wild backcombed black hair, not the mousy short bob that she had now worn for several years.