Robin swears under his breath and switches it off.

In the silence, his mind turns to the news that Freya imparted last night. So, Olivia Cross is pregnant. When Freya told him, his head instantly went back to that night in October last year. When he’d woken up, head fuzzy, stomach rolling. He tried to remember how Liv had been towards him. She said nothing happened, but had she been lying? Had they slept together? All he can remember is the woolly fug of his hangover.

He knows he needs to go and see her. To find out properly.

But what if it is his? The thought that he could be a father so unexpectedly makes his brain hurt. He’s not ready for that – for the responsibility, the expectations, the lack of sleep. But it doesn’t freak him out as it had in the past.

He’s had another text from Liam that morning, his brother-in-law up for his usual early-morning bike ride. He remembers his words, all those years ago, after the twins were born.

‘Things change for the better, Robin,’ Liam had said, eyes half closed from tiredness, three days’ worth of stubble on his chin. ‘We have different priorities now. Nothing else matters but these little guys.’

And look how that turned out, Robin thinks with a sting.

He shakes his head. He can’t think about this now. First the A33, then back to the Royal Berkshire Hospital.

He calls Craig again.

‘Butler, I can’t constantly be updating you on the case,’ she snaps when she answers.

‘Please, tell me what’s going on. I know the pressure you’re under—’

‘You bloody well do not,’ she interrupts. ‘You ever been SIO on a celebrity’s murder? I’ve never known press interest like it.’

‘Please, DI Craig.’

She sighs. ‘Are you at the hospital?’

‘ETA ten minutes.’

‘Meet me in the café at eight.’

When Robin gets there, DI Jo Craig is already sat at a side table, two coffees and two slices of toast and scrambled eggs in front of her.

She pushes one of the mugs across to him. ‘I thought you’d want this. And you’ll have to put up with me talking with my mouth full, I’ve been here since half six.’

‘Thank you,’ he replies, ‘for both the coffee and agreeing to meet me.’

‘I’m only showing you this to get you off my back.’ She pushes a file across the table. ‘And I hope you’ve eaten already, because it doesn’t make for pretty reading.’ Robin opens it. Colour photos of Simon Sharp’s autopsy greet him: jagged wound edges on his neck, the inner workings of blood vessels and tendons exposed.