There it was. Anything like reassurance – No way you could know, no one could’ve – would get me ripped apart. ‘If Joanne’s our woman,’ I said, ‘she’d have a good reason to take Chris’s phone off his body. It would’ve linked her to him.’

Conway pulled open a drawer, raked through the neat stacks of knickers. ‘No shit. And it’s probably landfill by now; no way we can prove he ever had it to begin with. We wave the records at Joanne, she says she was texting someone she met online or fuck only knows what she’ll come up with. And there’s nothing we can do.’

I said, ‘Unless we track down someone else Chris was contacting on the secret phone. Get her to come clean.’

Conway laughed, short and harsh. ‘Right. Get her to come clean. Easy as that. ’Cause that’s how this case rolls.’

‘Worth a shot.’

She slammed the drawer on the mess she’d made. ‘Jaysus, you’re a little ray of sunshine, aren’t you? Like working with bleeding Pollyanna—’

‘What do you want me to say? “Ah, fuck it, it’s never gonna work, let’s go home”?’

‘Do I look like quitting to you? I’m going nowhere. But if I have to listen to you being fucking chirpy, I swear to God—’

Both of us glaring, Conway shoving her face and her finger in close, me still against the wall so I couldn’t have backed off if I’d wanted to. We were on the edge of a full-on barney.

I don’t argue, not with people who have my career in their hands. Not even when I should; definitely not over bugger-all.

I said, ‘You’d rather have Costello, yeah? Depressing fucker like him? How’d that work out for you?’

‘You shut your—’

A buzz from Conway’s jacket. Message.

She wheeled away instantly, grabbing for her pocket. ‘That’s Sophie. Joanne’s phone records. About bloody time.’ She hit buttons, watched the download, knee jiggling.

I stayed well back. Waited, heart going ninety, for Fuck off home.

Conway glanced up, impatient. ‘What’re you doing? Come see this.’

Took me a second to cop: the fight was over, gone.

I took a breath, moved in at her shoulder. She tilted the phone so I could see the screen.

There it was. October, November, a year and a half back: one number going back and forth with the phone that had been Joanne’s, over and over again.

No calls, just messages. Text from the new number, text to it, media message from, text from, from, from, to. Chris chasing, Joanne playing it cool.

First week of December, the pattern changed. Text to the new number, text to, text to, text to, text to. Chris ignoring, Joanne pressing, Chris ignoring harder. Then, when she finally gave up, nothing.