Her presence was much stronger here, and the terrible sense of loss more intense. When he took flowers to her in the cemetery, it was somehow disconnected and remote, as though it was happening to somebody else. It was different here. This room was where he spoke to her, where he mourned her.

The duvet felt soft and welcoming compared to the sofa bed he slept on downstairs. He eased himself gently onto his side of the bed, reaching out to retrieve the nightshirt from under her pillows. Lying down, he scrunched his face into the soft fabric, eyes tight shut. The smell of her clothes and her hair had always provided a sense of comfort, but even that had faded now, and he was unable to recall her scent. Curling up, he buried his face in the pillow, sliding his arm out across the empty half of the bed.

And wept.

26

Wednesday, 15 August

‘So how have you been, Graham?’ Jean asked.

Harland sat with his hands on his knees, staring down at the beige carpet. It felt different coming here today – none of the usual reluctance, just a weary sense of resignation as though all the fight had gone out of him. He glanced up at Jean and managed an empty smile. She was wearing a casual grey jacket with a knee-length skirt and patent-leather shoes, her mousy hair gathered back so that it fell behind her shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked at the floor again.

‘It’s been . . . difficult recently,’ he admitted. ‘The past few weeks . . .’

She watched him calmly as he faltered, giving him a moment before gently breaking the silence.

‘Well, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you,’ she said patiently. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about what’s been happening in that time.’

He took a breath, tried to compose himself a little, then nodded.

‘I have missed a couple of appointments,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s all right,’ she nodded. ‘How have things been?’

Harland sat back in his chair.

‘Up and down,’ he began, then paused and shook his head. There was no point pretending. ‘Down quite a bit lately. I don’t know, maybe I just need more sleep, but little things have been bothering me, and I’ve been finding it hard to keep a lid on my emotions.’

He glanced up at her, willing her to take the conversation from him. Talking wasn’t easy just now.

‘I see.’ Jean sat back in her chair, notebook balanced on a slender knee. ‘Have you had any difficulty sleeping recently?’

‘I’ve had a few rough nights, yes.’

‘Difficulty getting to sleep again?’

He glanced up at her and nodded.

Jean wrote something in her book, then inclined her head and gazed silently at him.

‘What was keeping you awake?’ she asked.

Wasn’t it obvious?

‘I’ve been thinking about Alice a lot.’ He felt he had to speak carefully, control the rate at which he released the words in case they got away from him, pulled him too close to the edge.

‘That’s understandable,’ Jean said. ‘When do you find yourself thinking about her most?’

‘Evenings usually,’ he shrugged. ‘When I get home it’s sometimes not too bad, but lately . . .’

. . . it had been getting worse and worse.

‘Has she been on your mind more frequently in the last couple of weeks?’

He nodded, eyes downcast, saying nothing.

‘All right,’ Jean said. She paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you think of anything that might have triggered this?’

Harland’s shoulders sagged a little.

‘I fell asleep in our bed.’ He hesitated, then sighed. ‘In our old bed.’

Jean looked up from her notes.

‘Are you sleeping in another room?’

‘Yes.’ No need to elaborate – just keep it simple. For some reason he didn’t want to tell her that he camped out on the living-room sofa.

Jean put her book on the table and leaned forward, clasping her hands.

‘Why were you in there, in your old bed?’

Harland raised his head a little. He suddenly felt cold, exposed.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘I just needed to feel close to her I suppose.’

‘Okay,’ Jean nodded. ‘And what happened?’

‘I lay down on the bed, must have fallen asleep . . .’ He sighed. ‘I had a dream about her.’

‘Do you remember the dream?’

Harland nodded.

‘Can you tell me about it?’ she asked.

‘We were together, in a meadow with long grass . . . fooling around.’

‘Fooling around?’

He bowed his head, struggling with the memory.

‘We were having sex,’ he said quietly.

‘I see.’

Harland shut his eyes tightly. He hoped she didn’t see, hoped she couldn’t divine how he’d woken up to that awful moment of confusion, how he’d wondered where Alice was before the sickening realisation had come flooding back. He didn’t want her to know how he’d sat there, sobbing uncontrollably as he’d felt the sticky warmth in his shorts, humiliation on top of his loss.

Shame and fear swirled around him – he had to say something, move the conversation on.

‘Maybe I just need to drink less coffee,’ he said, looking up with a weak smile.

Jean’s large blue eyes studied him for a moment.

‘Graham, have you been sexually active with anyone since Alice passed away?’

She knew. She knew exactly what had happened. But at least she was allowing him the opportunity to gloss over it.

‘No,’ he said quietly. There was an uncomfortable thrill in telling her this. Was it the release of opening up, even partially, to someone else? Or was it that he found the discussion of sex with another woman exciting? Jean was certainly attractive. Gazing at her legs, he suddenly felt a guilty flush of arousal.

‘No,’ he said, more to himself this time. ‘I’m not seeing anyone.’

The conflict raged within him but he forced it down, as he forced down other unwelcome emotions. Bury it deep, starve it of oxygen until he couldn’t feel it any more. He set his jaw and forced himself to meet her steady gaze.

‘All right, Graham,’ she said after a long moment. ‘Have there been any other significant events since we spoke last?’

And just like that, the crisis passed. Her questions moved away to other matters – work, diet, exercise – and he coasted through the rest of their discussion.

But as he sat there, watching the clock above her desk counting down the minutes to the end of the session, he felt an odd sense of resentment building inside him. And unlike lust, that was impossible to subdue.

27

Thursday, 16 August

Harland stalked into the meeting room. He’d been in a bad mood anyway, and this part of the morning was unlikely to improve things. Putting his coffee on the table, he walked over to the window and stared out at the traffic for a moment, idly wondering if he had time to slip downstairs for a cigarette. But it wasn’t to be. Behind him, the door opened and he turned to see Pope enter, followed by Mendel. He sighed and walked round to his seat.

‘What’s this little get-together in aid of?’ Pope asked, opening his notebook and squinting up at the others through his glasses.

‘Progress review on the Severn Beach killing,’ Harland said quietly as he sat down. ‘And Blake wants to have a word with us.’

‘Must be serious then,’ Pope nodded thoughtfully.

Mendel caught Harland’s eye but remained silent. They both knew how this was likely to go, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

Blake arrived exactly on the stroke of ten, breezing into the room and making his way to the head of the table, where he pulled out his chair but remained standing for a moment.

‘Good morning,’ he said, as though noticing them for the first time. ‘All present and correct? Good, good.’

He sat down, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

‘Now then,’ he began. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on this Severn Beach business over the last few weeks and I thought it was high time we had a frank discussion about where we are, and how we see things proceeding.’