‘Do you remember how he died?’ Robin asks.

‘I…’ She frowns. ‘No, sorry. But I remember his parents moved away soon after. Too many bad memories, poor souls. He was their only child.’

There is a long pause, and Robin touches the microfiche, keen to get going. Eventually, Mrs French gets the hint.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she says.

‘See?’ Freya whispers triumphantly once she’s gone. ‘Locals always know the gossip.’

‘That’ll be round the village before the day is out, I guarantee you,’ Robin replies. He sighs, then pulls the first microfiche from the file. ‘Let’s get started.’

Hours later, eyes dry, backs aching, they’re still going. Both of them staring at the screen, speed-reading the headings as they flick by. Freya goes to fetch sandwiches, and they take turns to eat in the middle of the room to make sure bits of tuna mayo don’t end up on the precious microfiche. Robin finishes his, carefully wiping his hands then shuffling his chair back to where Freya’s sitting, head resting on her hands, face barely centimetres from the screen.

He still feels awful that he hadn’t realised how bad things have got for her. It seems ridiculous to Robin now – of course Freya would have been traumatised. Of course she’d be upset. After everything he’d done in his past, Amy Miller’s death was barely a blip in his numbed, fucked-up brain, but to Freya it must have been a living nightmare.

She seems better today, though, more her usual self. She’s smiling again, chatting in her normal way. Out of the detective ‘uniform’ (the female version seems to be similar to the men’s, Robin’s noticed: shirts, smart trousers, jackets and the like) she seems more relaxed, wearing a SuperDry hoodie today, jeans and trainers, her hair intricately braided in a French plait.

And he feels better, too. Away from the stifling heat of the hospital, the feeling of helplessness. The drive and the music of his university days have lifted him, as has Freya’s easy company.

He leans forward, their shoulders touching. The microfiche scrolls by, page after page, Freya moving the viewer slowly across. Robin grows distracted. Post-carb wooziness. The smell of her shampoo. Weariness from the drive.

‘You smell of tuna,’ Freya says quietly, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

‘You bought the sandwiches.’ A pause. Eyes forward. ‘Better or worse than the Monster Munch?’

‘Are those my only two choices?’

Freya smiles, glancing towards him. Her face close to his. But—

‘Wait! Go back,’ he says.

He sits up straight, all his attention on the screen. Freya reverses the header into view.

‘There. That’s him.’ Robin reads aloud, ‘Fraser, J. Date of birth: January 1981.’

This is the information they’re after. Freya carefully lines the page up on the screen and presses the print button. The machine whirs and spits out a blurry copy of the article.