‘If I don’t try, he’s not going to make it,’ and with that, he leans over the man, pushes his chin back, tentatively runs his fingers down the windpipe, then cuts. A trickle of blood runs down the injured man’s neck, as Sharp’s muscles visibly tense. He removes the penknife, then pushes his finger into the bloody hole. ‘Pass me that,’ he says, pointing towards a biro in a man’s pocket. He removes the ink, then thrusts the body of the pen into the hole. Even on the screen, it’s hard to watch, and Freya feels her heart racing. People cheer as the injured man’s chest starts to move again. Sharp turns to the camera, a relieved expression on his face, blood streaked across his cheek.

It’s almost Oscar-worthy, pulled from the pages of a screenplay.

‘Quite the alpha male, isn’t he?’ Freya remarks.

‘Just makes me wonder,’ Robin says, the perpetual crease on his forehead. ‘How did a guy like this get overpowered by someone like Finn? I mean, look at him.’ He points to the screen, and Freya knows exactly what he’s referring to. Sharp is fit: a wide chest, impressive arms.

‘Not your average scientist,’ Freya agrees.

‘Exactly. Finn is tall but built like a matchstick. If those two got physical, there’s no doubt who would come out on top. And it’s the guy currently in the mortuary.’

He falls back into silence. Freya doesn’t know Finn, but she can imagine that Simon Sharp wouldn’t have had to work hard to defend himself. Unless Dr Mason took him unawares, Freya thinks, but doesn’t say it.

They watch a few more episodes. But Freya’s struggling to get the image of the broken man on the concrete out of her head. She keeps on imagining Amy Miller. How she died. She’d seen the final crime scene photos: the blood on the kitchen floor.

The familiar guilt returns. The fluttering panic in her chest, the knowledge of what she did. Freya forces herself to take a long breath in. She focuses on Robin next to her. His solid presence.

It’s been getting bad for a while now. And she doesn’t know what to do about it. Somehow she feels her boss has been putting his life back together while hers has been falling apart. And there’s nobody she can talk to about it but him.

‘Robin?’ she whispers. In her head she rehearses the words. I need to tell you how I am, how I’m feeling. I need you to help me.

She looks over. But her boss is asleep. His head is tilted to one side, his body slumped against the cushion.

He can’t have slept well last night. She can’t imagine what he’s had to deal with.

She can wait. Her problems can wait.