Porter slid into a pew at the back of the chapel next to Styles, and watched as Gibson’s family were ushered into the front row. He had taken his place there once. Next to Holly’s parents. Confused from the conflict of comforting reassurance from others that despite your loss you’re not alone, but all the while longing for them to leave so you could let the grief wash over you and be done with it. Porter tried to let his mind wander, think about something other than funerals. Anything would do. He thought of Natasha, but that darkened his mood even more. Mike had quite the crowd, but Natasha had no one who even cared enough to look for her. Who would she get? The last funeral he had been to was the father of a friend. You could count the mourners that day on two hands, including the priest, and that had somehow amplified the sadness of the occasion. Even though he had only ever seen Natasha in photographs, he couldn’t help feel that she deserved better than that.

Porter forced himself to focus on the picture of Mike Gibson that sat atop the coffin. Today was about Mike. Not Natasha. Not Holly. Even thinking her name in a place like this brought back the all-too-familiar hollow feeling in his stomach. His mouth felt dry, as if he’d had a few the night before, and he felt himself start to fidget in his seat, desperate to be anywhere but here.

He forced himself to sit still, fixing his gaze on the photo as the priest worked his way through the service, right up until the curtains whirred along the rail, obscuring it from view. He filed out into the aisle with the others, feet shuffling in frustration, needing to get out into the fresh air and away from all this.

‘Plans for the day, then, guv?’ said Styles, once they were outside.

‘We see what Reid has for us when we get back. No point planning too far past that, yet, cos that could change everything.’

Styles nodded. ‘It could, but – and I don’t want to rain on your parade here because there is a but – if it only shows a frame every three seconds, we might come up empty-handed even if he was there.’

‘What do you mean “if he was there”? Of course he was there. He’s—’

‘Whoa, easy tiger.’ Styles raised his hands in surrender. ‘I agree. I’m just saying there’s a chance that he did whatever he did in however many seconds of nothingness between frames.’

Porter was painfully aware of the odds being stacked against them, and didn’t have a concrete plan beyond that, but decided to cross that bridge when they came to it.

‘Emma’s invited you round for dinner on Sunday. Roast beef and all the trimmings, if you can make it?’