Ian flushes. ‘He wanted me here. Man on the ground. To watch the data as it came in.’ Robin sees his demeanour change – the red cheeks, the hesitation – but he doesn’t push. Not yet.

‘And how did Dr Mason seem in the last few weeks?’

‘He was working hard. I know he was here all hours of the day and night. We can only predict the storms a few days ahead, so once we realised, it was all go. There was a lot of pressure to get everything ready before it hit.’

‘And in himself? Did he seem okay?’

Ian screws up his face. ‘Depends how well you know Finn. Some of the others were worried about him, saying he wasn’t eating or sleeping, but I’ve been on his team a while now and he gets like this. There’s nothing more important than his work. He’s incredibly driven.’

Robin knew that side of him. He was the same when he was studying for his A levels. ‘To the point of making himself ill?’ he asks.

‘Maybe.’

Robin moves further inside, leaving Grey addressing technical questions to Calloway in the corridor. He runs his fingers across the top of a dusty bookshelf; to Robin, it seems like the office of an academic. The paper, the books, the notes – they all show someone hard at work on something way outside of Robin’s comprehension.

He feels his throat narrow. Just days ago, Finn was here. Working hard, getting ready for what should have been the making of his career. And instead, he is in hospital, while the police investigate him for the murder of a colleague. And a celebrity at that. Robin briefly saw the papers this morning: it was front-page news, even in the nationals. He knows they’ll be reporting what happened, facts or no facts.

He catches sight of the corner of a photograph, pinned on the wall, behind a stack of files. He pulls it out.

It’s one taken at Finn’s PhD graduation ceremony, standing straight in his hat and gown, Robin next to him, his arm around him. He was so proud that day. Of everything Finn had achieved.

He leans forward to put the photograph back, but as he does so, his nose catches the edge of something. A particular smell. Stark. Medicinal. Subtle, but there nonetheless.

He bends down again, sniffing around the desk. The cups smell of coffee and something unpleasant. The empty water bottles…

He picks up the one closest to him, empty but its cap off. He sniffs, then recoils. The unmistakable smell of alcohol, strong stuff at that. He looks at the dregs in the bottom, then, against his better judgement, puts it to his mouth and tips the few drips in.

It’s vodka.

He picks up the bottle next to it, takes the cap off and sniffs. The same. Then the next, and the next. They all smell of alcohol.