Bex sighs. ‘I know it’s not easy, Jake,’ she says, walking through to the kitchen, ‘but he’s been incredibly good to her over the past five months, nurtured her back to health because he loves her. Loves her art. Wants her to paint again.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

Jake is about to get up from the computer when his phone rings.

It’s Kate.

‘Jake,’ she says quietly.

The line’s terrible, but Jake can hear enough to tell that Kate’s frightened. He signals furiously for Bex to come back from the kitchen and listen.

‘Where are you?’ he asks, putting Kate on speakerphone as Bex rushes over.

‘Jake, can you hear me?’ Kate says, her voice now a desperate whisper.

Jake cracks his big knuckles, increasingly worried by the tone of her voice.

‘Where are you, Katie, my love?’ Bex says, leaning in towards the phone. ‘Why are you whispering?’

They both strain to hear what Kate says next. Maybe something about Rob’s flat. It’s hard to tell.

The line drops.

71

Silas

It’s late and Silas is driving Strover home through the deserted streets of Swindon. A light rain has rinsed the roads, leaving them black and shiny. They were the last two in the Parade Room tonight, going through automatic-number-plate-recognition records from six months ago, grateful that they’re kept for one year at the National ANPR Data Centre. Conor’s revelation that the car at the scene of Kate’s crash was a Tesla has changed everything. Silas can’t be certain that it was Rob at the wheel, but it’s beginning to make sense, at least to him.

‘Remember when we showed Kate a still from the CCTV footage at the pub?’ he asks.

‘And Kate recognised the barman,’ Strover says, tired, unimpressed.

‘When we asked her how,’ Silas continues, ‘she said that the same barman had spiked her coffee in the harbour café the day before.’

‘So she never forgets a face.’ Strover is still sceptical. ‘At least, she never used to.’

‘Exactly. But she didn’t just say that she recognised him. She said that he’d spiked her coffee. That’s quite a specific charge to level at someone.’

It’s been bothering Silas ever since Kate told them in Cornwall. He steers the car across Swindon’s infamous magic roundabout, five small ones linked in a circle.

‘I still don’t get how this relates to Rob,’ she says, staring out of the window into the Swindon night.

‘Because I think it was Rob who suggested to Kate that her coffee had been spiked.’

‘Rob?’ She looks across at him.

‘He’d seen it happen before – six months earlier in the Bluebell.’

‘How could Rob have seen it happen?’ Strover asks, more engaged now. ‘He wasn’t at the Bluebell that night.’