She’s obviously still feeling guilty about the flowers. So she should. It’s a while since they’ve seen her and they used deception to enter her house. Why did she open the door when all she could see on the security camera was a bunch of carnations? She should have known. Rob only ever sends lilies. A part of her wanted to slam the door in their faces, but there’s an undeniable bond between them, forged over months of working too hard together, that Kate suspects will never be broken. They lived in each other’s pockets when the unit was running, learnt to rely on each other.

‘I can’t see him,’ she says, lowering the binoculars. ‘You need to tell me if I’m right to be feeling this scared.’

She’s told them what happened after she drank her coffee in the harbour café yesterday. And neither of them believes it was cramp either.

‘There’s no conclusive proof that your drink was spiked at the pub, or your coffee yesterday at the café,’ Hart says, taking the binoculars from her and focusing on birds diving far out at sea. ‘But it’s looking that way. You must be careful. Don’t do anything impulsive.’

He gives her a look. She knows he’s referring to her unauthorised trips to the Bluebell. She should have told him earlier, but she’d crossed a line by going there. It was symptomatic of her state of mind at the time. She was tired to the core from work and devastated that night after seeing Jake with another woman. She also didn’t think she’d be recognised by anyone, but it seems the barman knew exactly who she was – and tried to kill her.

And now he’s down here.

‘Gannets,’ Hart says, binoculars still raised.

Strover rolls her eyes at Kate. Kate got to know her too, admired her technical knowhow, the way she stood up for herself in what was a very male environment. Hart also stood up for Strover, often fighting her corner, which is why Kate likes him. He just got carried away with the work, their successes. They all did.

And then she spots someone on his own at the far end of the beach. He’s too far away to see his face, but his gait, his profile, is sickeningly familiar.

‘Binoculars?’ she says, trying to sound professional.

Hart is still distracted by gannets. Strover nudges him. ‘Boss?’

He passes them over. Her hands are trembling again as she focuses on the man who wants her dead.

‘That’s him,’ she says, lingering on his face, the features that he attempted to hide from her yesterday. Large forehead. Herman, as in Munster. Does a part of her remember him from the Bluebell, that night of the accident? Or does she just recognise him from the café and the photo?