Bex and Kate used to despair of people whose voice went up at the end of every sentence. Now Bex is doing it.

‘Not any more.’ Kate slams the last cupboard door shut and rests her hands on the sideboard, head bowed.

‘I’ve got some gin in my room,’ Bex says quietly.

‘I thought you drank it all last night?’ Kate says, turning as Bex walks out of the kitchen and down the corridor to her room.

‘Emergency rations,’ Bex calls over her shoulder.

Two minutes later, they’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking strong gin and tonics at three in the afternoon. Kate used to drink at lunchtimes, when things were getting really bad with Jake. Kid herself that mints would mask the smell of alcohol. Stretch is on his bed, shattered after his long walk with Bex while Kate was out with Hart and Strover.

‘I never like to travel without reserve supplies,’ Bex says, turning the small square bottle to look at its artisan label: ‘Lancashire Dry Gin’. ‘Particularly when I’m coming down here to Prohibition Villas.’

‘Thanks,’ Kate says, enjoying the glowing sensation as the alcohol starts to permeate her body.

‘Hair of the dog,’ Bex says, knocking back hers.

‘Speak for yourself.’

She’d left Bex to it last night. Been a good girl. The doctors all said she should try to avoid anything that might impair her brain’s recovery, including alcohol. Rob often reminds her of their words. It was the same when she was working. Hangovers weren’t compatible with intensive recognition work. It didn’t stop her drinking, though. She was beyond caring.

‘So what’s happened now?’ Bex asks.

Kate starts to fill her in about nearly being run over in the street by the man who sat next to her in the café. As she gets to the bit about Jake and the pub CCTV footage he was sent that shows the same man, there’s a ring on the doorbell.

‘I’ll go,’ she says.

‘Call if you need me,’ Bex says as she walks off down to her room.

She hesitates by the door for a moment, suddenly fearful. It must be the adrenaline from earlier. She almost laughs with relief when she clicks on the security monitor screen. It’s Mark, the guy who runs the gallery and looks after Stretch when she goes for a swim. He’s with Trudie, his own dog. She opens the door.

‘Just wondering if you wanted me to take Stretch for a walk,’ he asks, his open face all smiles.

‘That’s kind of you,’ she says, standing back in case her breath smells of gin. Mark’s a good man, always looking out for others.

‘Didn’t know whether you’d be up to walking him yourself,’ he says, ‘after what happened yesterday.’