‘I know what it is,’ she snaps. There’s no need to be short with Bex. She has gone out of her way to help her. It’s just that a flat white is what Kate usually has.

‘Rob only ever drinks espresso,’ she says. ‘A double. He’s a man of ridiculous habit.’

She’s always teasing him about his routines, telling him he needs to let his hair down more often. In truth, she envies his discipline. She can’t seem to focus so well since the accident.

‘Maybe he fancied a change, I don’t know,’ Bex says. ‘It’s just a bloody cup of coffee, Kate.’

But Kate can tell that she’s not convinced, that Rob’s choice has disconcerted Bex. Kate too.

12

Silas

‘This better be worth it,’ Detective Inspector Silas Hart says as Jake sits down opposite him in the café. Silas tries to avoid work at weekends, but his current in-tray at Swindon CID is making that difficult.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Jake says. ‘Bus from Marlborough was delayed.’

‘What sort of bestselling author travels by bus?’ Silas asks.

It’s a cheap shot, below the belt. Silas was happy to help Jake with his books when he approached him a few years ago, assumed he’d soon become the Morse of Swindon. But it turns out his thrillers aren’t so bestselling after all. They’re not even published in English.

Jake takes out a small padded envelope as a waitress comes up to ask if he’d like anything to eat. Silas is halfway through a bacon sandwich.

‘No, thanks,’ Jake says to the waitress.

The guy really is broke. They haven’t met up for a while and, these days, when they do, they spend more time discussing rare birds than police procedure.

‘Get him a tea and a bacon sandwich,’ Silas says, turning to Jake. ‘On me.’

‘Thanks,’ Jake says sheepishly, and retrieves a small memory stick from the package. Jake is a big man, and his long hair and flecked beard make him look a bit wild. It’s a mystery how he manages to live on a narrowboat.

‘What’s on it?’ Silas asks.

Jake swings his bag around, rummages through a mess of books and old newspapers and pulls out a battered laptop. Silas catches a whiff of diesel.

‘Is it suitable for public viewing?’ he asks, glancing around the café, one of his favourite greasy spoons. It’s in the town centre, near the courts, where he’s been most of this week for a human-trafficking trial. Until recently, Swindon’s nail bars weren’t really his sort of place. Now he’s got to know them well. Extensions, overlays, the lot.