Freya gazes out of the car window as they drive back to the police station. Did he have family? Children? A wife? People that loved him? She thinks of her own situation, and tears threaten behind her eyes. She’d never have imagined her own life like this. Single, at thirty-six. Living alone. Clock ticking.

She’s always wanted kids. Two – a boy and a girl, like Mina. A husband who puts the bins out and mows the lawn. Taking the maximum time off when the baby arrives, maybe going back to work part-time. She’s more traditional than she likes to admit.

She’d thought it could be possible with Jonathan. But now? Not now.

Who would marry her? She’s a state. She doesn’t sleep. She’s working too hard. Jittery from caffeine. Hasn’t done any exercise or eaten anything green in months.

Next to her, Mina is still quiet. Like Freya, shocked into uncharacteristic silence when faced with the stark finality of the slab. Freya stares out of the window as familiar neighbourhoods flash by and resolves anew to sort herself out. To get Amy Miller and what happened out of her head.

But how? she thinks. How?

When, despite the sunshine and the scent of summer in the air, everything feels so dark.

17

It doesn’t make sense. But it’s an explanation of sorts.

Robin stands, back in Finn’s flat, the fridge open in front of him. He has one of the bottles of water in his hand, cap off. He takes a quick sniff. It’s vodka. The bottle is full of vodka. He takes the next plastic bottle out and does the same – the alcohol fumes are stark and biting.

Grey is next to him, evidence bags in hand, waiting. Robin is grateful for his silence, as he struggles to digest what he’s found.

‘Bag it all up,’ he says to Grey, then leaves the kitchen and goes out of the flat. He’s looking for where the bins are kept, and eventually finds a small, gated door into a fenced-off outbuilding round the back of the flats.

He slides the latch open and starts moving bags around inside. And then, there it is. A box of glass recycling, full to the brim, containing five huge empty vodka bottles.

He wants to imagine this is from the whole block of flats, but he knows he’d be deluding himself. The sign on the wall says that the bins are taken away every Friday. This is from less than a week ago. And all the same brand of vodka.

Robin takes a quick succession of photos on his phone, then shuts the door in disgust. He slowly climbs the stairs back to the flat in silence.