The rest of the afternoon goes slowly. Jack is sent out on another job with Ellie and I’m left in the newsroom to type up my unfinished interview with Margot. Ted slopes off to the pub early and, as soon as he’s gone, I escape, too, so that I don’t have to walk home in the dark, with the now ever-present fear that I’m being followed. Plus, I’d promised Rory I’d cook dinner tonight.

It’s twilight as I make my way through Queen Square after a detour to Tesco to pick up ingredients. Even so, as I head across the square I sense I’m being followed again and the back of my neck prickles, as though someone’s eyes are boring into me. I turn quickly, while still walking, hoping to catch whoever it is off guard. A man is walking several paces behind me with a baseball cap pulled over his eyes. In the fading light it’s hard to make out who it is, but my stomach drops. Is it Wayne Walker? Has he been following me all this time? I squint, trying to get a better look, but the peak of the cap has cast shadows over his face so I can’t make out his features. He’s tall. Too tall for Wayne, I think. There’s something about his gait that reminds me of Adam. I know he went to the police station with Margot earlier, but it’s possible she went back to Tilby on her own and he stayed behind to spy on me. What does he want? How can – Oomph! I walk straight into a bin, banging my leg in the process. I swear under my breath, rubbing my leg, hoping I haven’t bruised myself. When I turn around the man is walking in the opposite direction.

I’m surrounded by mess: chopped vegetables on the counter, noodles spilling out of an opened bag, the carcass of a waxy pepper and its core. The wok is too hot and some beansprouts and chicken strips are sticking to the base, already burned, but I dump the noodles in regardless. A stir-fry. How hard can that be? Bloody hard as it turns out.

‘You’re supposed to keep stirring,’ says a voice, over my shoulder. I jump. Rory’s home too early. I didn’t hear him come in. This was supposed to be a surprise.

‘I hate cooking,’ I mumble, picking up a spatula and prodding the noodles, feeling sweat prickle under my armpits.

He laughs in my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘I’ve noticed.’ He spins me around so that I’m facing him. He’s still wearing his coat and his nose is red with the cold. I can smell rain on him. ‘But it’s the thought that counts. And you know stir-fries are my favourite.’ He kisses me.