He takes it with a grateful smile. ‘They don’t know. Waiting for the MRI results to come back. The psychiatrist is still talking about psychotic breaks. Basically, they haven’t got a bloody clue, but they don’t want to say that.’

He goes on to tell her about finding the vodka in his flat and office, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

‘You didn’t suspect?’ she asks.

‘Not a clue,’ Robin replies, the guilt clear on his face. ‘So now they’re dealing with the withdrawal symptoms from the alcohol addiction, too. The shakes, the headaches, the vomiting. He’s even had a few hallucinations.’

‘And he can’t remember what happened?’

‘No. And he can’t form new memories either. He doesn’t remember what we tell him or even what sodding day it is.’

Freya stands next to the cooker, watching him. He looks knackered, black rings under his eyes, his face drawn. Over the last few months, she’s watched her boss look better and better – losing weight after taking up running, colour returning to his cheeks from being outdoors in the spring sunshine. Eating more healthily, drinking less. But tonight he looks back to square one.

‘Sorry, how are you?’ he asks, looking up with a wan smile.

‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’

‘Smith okay to work for?’

She smiles. ‘Yeah. Nicer than you.’

‘That’s not hard.’

‘Better-looking, too.’

‘Again – low bar.’

The beeper goes off and she drains the pasta into the sink. She enjoys this easy banter. Unlike with others in the office, his manner with her is relaxed and self-deprecating, and she likes being around him. She’s missed him these past couple of days.

She stirs pesto sauce into the pasta and plonks a bowl in front of him. It’s hardly MasterChef, but she knows he won’t mind. She lets him eat a few mouthfuls in silence, steeling herself.

‘Robin,’ she says, and he looks up, chewing. ‘I bumped into Olivia Cross today.’

‘Liv? Where?’

‘At Eastleigh College, when we were doing the witness statements for those boys. She’s studying for a beauty therapy course.’

‘Really? Good on her.’

Freya pauses. His tone seems light. ‘Have you seen her since… you know?’

She can’t bring herself to say the actual words. Since Amy Miller died. Since we covered up our involvement in her death.

‘No, not at all.’

‘It’s just…’

He clocks her tone and looks at her. His forehead furrows. ‘What?’

‘She’s pregnant.’

He stops, fork hovering above his bowl. ‘Okay…’ The word is long and drawn-out; he knows she’s waiting to say more.

‘Nine months pregnant. So the baby would have been conceived—’

‘Around last October.’

‘But that’s nothing to do with you, is it, Robin?’ Freya blurts out. ‘I mean, you never slept with her?’ Her boss is still silent. ‘Robin?’ she asks again, a bad feeling coming over her.