By the time I’ve walked to the police station and back, I’m a bit late to meet Jack. But he’s waiting at the table nearest the door, his expression serious as he taps out a text on his phone, a pint of beer untouched in front of him. His dark blond hair flops in his face and he keeps pushing it back with one hand, distracted, his brows knotted together. I’m struck again by how handsome he is. Not as striking as Rory, I think loyally, but still a very attractive man. Once, during a drunken chat when we were first getting to know each other, Jack let slip that he’d broken a few hearts before falling in love with Finn three years ago. As a result Finn could be a little possessive at times.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ I say, as I slide into the seat opposite him.

He looks up, his face brightening when he sees it’s me. ‘About time. Thought you’d been arrested for taking that card from the Wilsons’ garden.’

‘Ruthgow wasn’t happy. You know what he’s like.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘He’s so intense. Isn’t he up for retirement yet? He looks like he’s going to croak any minute.’ He clutches his throat and puts on a raspy thirty-fags-a-day voice: ‘You know this is the only information I can give you on the record.’

‘He’s not yet sixty. You make him sound like he’s about to get a telegram from the Queen any minute.’ I get up. ‘I’m just going to the bar. Do you want anything?’

He jumps up. ‘I’ll get it. You sit down. You could do with a rest.’ He grins. ‘After all, you’re getting on a bit yourself now.’

‘Oh, fuck off.’ I laugh, but I sit down anyway. My feet are hurting in my new boots. I’d bought them for a steal at a vintage shop after falling in love with them, but they’re half a size too small.

‘What do you want?’

I contemplate asking for a glass of wine but settle on a Coke. When I left London I promised myself I wouldn’t drink during the week. My glass of wine a night was turning into two, and then three. It’s hard to keep to my no-drinking rule sometimes, though.

Jack strides to the bar, attracting stares from a blonde woman at a nearby table in his well-cut suit. He gets paid a pittance at the paper, but he always seems able to afford nice clothes. I don’t know where he gets the money from.

He returns with my drink and two packets of spicy crisps that he knows are my favourite.

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, taking a long glug of Coke. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the blonde woman looking towards Jack and giggling to her friend.