‘Hmm,’ he replies in agreement. He turns the empty mug round in his hands. ‘When was the last time you had a break, Freya?’ he asks, at last.

‘A break?’

‘Yeah. A holiday. Time off work.’

She thinks back. Maybe… Easter? But then a manslaughter case came in and they both got called into work. She remembers going to see her parents for the weekend, and it was cold. So—

‘Christmas?’ she replies.

He shakes his head. ‘You didn’t have Christmas off. We were both working.’

‘We went to the pub on Christmas Eve?’

‘A few drinks with your boring skipper doesn’t count as a holiday.’ He stops again, thinking. ‘Come with me down to Devon.’

‘Pardon?’

He says it so quietly she thinks she’s misheard.

‘I’m going back home for a few days. Come with me.’

‘What…? We can’t… I can’t…’

‘It’s the weekend. Baker won’t mind. He’ll make sure Smith gives you the time off.’

Freya’s struggling to get to grips with what Robin’s proposing. It sounds like… It sounds like he’s asking her to come on a minibreak with him, but that can’t be right, surely? And Baker would never approve that – a sergeant and his DC going for a dirty stay in a hotel? Now why did that thought cross her mind? She feels her cheeks reddening in response.

In her silence, Robin carries on talking. ‘So, this may sound ridiculous, but Finn said something today. He mentioned some little kid that died when we were fourteen and that it was his fault. And I know it’ll be his addled brain talking, but the kid did die, and Finn was there, and…’

His voice trails off and he looks at her. Her brain is slow to catch up, but when she does, she takes a relieved gasp of air.

‘You want me to come with you to help investigate!’

‘Yes, well, kind of. Off the books, but…’ Then he twigs. ‘Oh fuck, no, Freya. I wasn’t inviting you to come with me because… not like that!’

‘Oh, well, good!’

‘Separate hotel rooms, I promise.’

‘Phew!’ Freya says, with an awkward laugh.

Robin looks slightly chagrined. ‘Okay, okay, you don’t need to be quite so horrified at the thought.’

Freya laughs, properly this time. ‘You’re just not my type, Sarge.’

She glances across to Robin, grinning. And then an image pops back into her head. The impulsive kiss between them last year. That sudden attraction. Being so very close, almost half-naked with her boss. Weird, awkward, wrong – and barely weeks after Jonathan had died.

Freya feels her face flush and notices Robin look away, no doubt remembering the same thing.