It was really cold outside and strangely silent because the snow had settled; at least, it had in this garden – not much, but enough to quieten the city by a decibel or two. In fact, she could see a few snowflakes, or perhaps they were just ash, swirling up in the warm yellow glow emanating from the Christmas bulbs in the tree. They were in Battersea somewhere, a warehouse in a back street. There were other people outside smoking and she went a little way off and sat at a table beneath the tree under a little awning. Her tights were thin and the metal bench was icy against her soft, hairless thighs. She shivered.

She felt exposed in all senses: the cold, the Yummy Monster, Abigail. She never talked about Abigail. Only twice had she ever spoken of her death in detail – once with Si and once with her psychiatrist in the months that followed. It was in the past now. She couldn’t help thinking of Connie sitting there in her room being forced to remember, and how generous she was with her honesty.

‘You OK?’

She looked up and smiled. Dougie sat down beside her and she offered him her cigarette.

‘I don’t smoke,’ he said, and took it from her fingers.

She laughed. ‘That’s right. You’re action man, aren’t you?’

‘I am a bit,’ he said, taking a drag and passing it back.

‘You were always sporty.’

‘I liked sport. Still do.’

‘You were so clever, Dougie. Why are you working in boring old IT?’

He laughed. ‘It’s not that boring. Not as exciting as your work, no doubt. So you’re fed up with everyone asking you about that case?’

‘Could you tell? Was I rude?’

‘It’s bloody freezing,’ he said. ‘Here, have my jacket.’ She let him put it around her shoulders. Were her generation the last that were allowed to enjoy such gentlemanly gestures?

‘Can you keep a secret?’ she said.

‘Sure.’

‘She’s a great woman.’

‘Who?’

‘Constance Mortensen.’

‘Is she?’ He sounded surprised.

She sighed. ‘I like her.’

‘Are you allowed to feel attached to your patients?’ he asked.

She shrugged.

‘She doesn’t remember it, you know, driving the kids into the river.’

‘Luckily for her.’

‘No. She’s disassociated herself from her actions.’

He shivered and she pushed her body into his a little to warm him up. It was dangerous, flirtatious, but she owed him some of the warmth of his jacket.

‘Don’t you think we’re all capable of anything, given the right triggers and the wrong medications?’ she asked him.

‘Not anything,’ he said. And she realized she didn’t know anything about him at all really.

‘Maybe we’re all just ticking bombs . . .’ she said softly, looking up.