Freya stares at him. ‘So, what?’ she says, quietly. ‘Finn killed him out of jealousy?’ She pauses. ‘But this only adds weight to Craig’s case.’

Robin sits up, running his hands down his face. ‘Oh, fuck, I know. But what happened in that van, Freya? Who else could have killed Simon?’

‘I don’t know,’ Freya replies, exasperated. They’re just going round in circles. She sighs. ‘Do you want tea?’ she asks after a pause.

He nods, quieter now, detecting her tone. ‘Yeah, please,’ he replies.

She gets up, again aware of how she’s dressed. To put clothes on feels like she would only be drawing attention to the fact, but before she decides what to do, it seems he notices.

‘Shit, Freya. I’m sorry.’ His cheeks flush slightly, and his gaze averts decisively to the floor. ‘This is so wrong. I shouldn’t have knocked on your door.’

But his awkwardness only amuses her now. She grabs a hoodie from her chair and puts it on. ‘It’s fine,’ she laughs. ‘What’s a late-night hotel visit between friends?’

He smiles. ‘Fuck, still.’

She puts the kettle on, and his gaze turns to the television screen.

‘I used to watch this film when I was little,’ Robin comments.

‘Me too.’ Freya sits next to him, perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Whatever happened when Finn was fourteen doesn’t matter. Depressed or not, Finn did not murder Simon Sharp. You know that.’ She smiles and he looks at her for a second. ‘There’s nothing more you can do. Leave this alone. And leave Finn’s case to Craig’s team.’

He doesn’t answer, so deep in thought, and Freya wonders if he’s even listening.

‘Robin? Please? Leave it be.’

At last, he nods. She makes the tea, takes the school report out of his hands and swaps it for the mug. She puts the album back in the box, then takes her own tea and sits cross-legged on the bed.

She flicks the sound back on on the television, and both sets of eyes go to the screen. The film has moved on, but she knows the story from repeated viewings, almost able to repeat the lines back to herself.

She scoots back in the bed, leaning up against the headboard. After a moment, he does the same. They watch the film, and the clock ticks round. They share a joke, reminisce about a particular scene, but never touch, never make eye contact.

And when the credits roll and she reaches over to turn the TV off, she notices he’s fallen asleep, slumped where he’s sat. She can barely hear him breathing, but his eyes are closed, his face relaxed. He’s dozed off maybe half a dozen times on her sofa, but here, on a bed, it feels strange.