‘Your opinions on the police force. You don’t know Robin. You don’t know how hard he works. What motivates him,’ Finn had answered quietly. ‘You were rude, and it made you look foolish.’ And he’d walked away, leaving her fuming.

But he was right. She should have apologised, she knew. She resolved to make it up to him, but good grief, Robin Butler could hold a grudge. In his eyes she wasn’t good enough for Finn. And the events of today only proved it.

She can’t believe what they’re saying about Finn. She’s never seen him lose his temper, not even raise his voice. So the idea that he could kill someone? It’s ridiculous.

The papers are painting him as some sort of evil genius: Finn the villain and Dr Sharp his innocent victim. But Sophie knows that tensions were running high, and the team were starting to crack. It’s no wonder Finn had to turn to drugs.

She catches a glimpse of the small suitcase in the corner of her living room. The plan for the rest of this week was for Finn to get some sleep, analyse the data, get his students set up to do the rest, then go away for a few days. They were going to Rome. To see the sights, to hold hands walking around the ruins of the Colosseum, to eat pizza and gnocchi and drink red wine. Finn had packed his case in advance and left it here, ready for their departure that coming weekend. Sophie knows the police are now searching his dirty flat, but what about this suitcase? What else has he been hiding?

She goes over and kneels on the floor, pulling it onto its side and unzipping it. Slowly, she takes the contents out. She goes through his toiletries, opening the bottles and sniffing the contents. Shower gel. Shaving cream. Some sort of hair product. Toothpaste. Deodorant. That’s all. Nothing sinister.

On the top is a sweatshirt, his favourite, that he wears far too often. Worn grey cotton, with the words UNIVERSITY OF READING emblazoned on the front. Sophie has often berated him for it, taking the piss and threatening to give it to charity, but now she picks it up, burying her face in the soft material. It smells of him, and she feels a wave of loss. She misses him. She wants to hug him, to hold on and push her cheek into the dip next to his collarbone, where she fits the best.

She goes to put the sweatshirt on, but in doing so, something falls out and rolls under her sofa. She crouches down and pokes her head under, pushing her arm until her fingers come in contact with the object.

She pulls it out.

It’s a small grey velvet box. She opens it slowly.