Phil had felt himself blush then, massively. What was he doing asking her out? What had possessed him to say that? He worked hard within the force to be seen as a man’s man when he had to be and a thief-taker by trade. He had shrugged off death threats from criminals that other officers would be seriously concerned by. But with women, he was all but clueless.

His mouth was open, ready to attempt to take his words back, when she said yes, that would be lovely.

‘Why did you say yes?’ he had asked her on their first proper date, in the Olive Tree restaurant in Colchester’s town centre. It was relaxed and comfortable with good, if slightly pricey, food. The kind of place professionals came to eat. But not usually police officers of his rank. He figured it for a safe place not to be seen.

They had made small talk on shared interests, discussed the case, whereabouts they both lived. Then Phil decided to move things on.

And her response was that smile again. Her wine glass at her lips, the deep reds matching, the candlelight dancing in her hazel eyes. ‘Why not?’ she said, taking a slow mouthful of wine. Phil watched as her lips lifted from the glass, glistening. ‘You’re handsome. You’re intelligent. You look like you can handle yourself if you need to, but you’re sensitive too.’

Phil laughed. ‘Is that a professional opinion?’

She nodded. ‘A personal one. But it’s true. I can see it in your eyes.’

He didn’t know what to say.

She laughed. ‘Are you happy being a detective?’

Phil was surprised by the question. ‘Yeah. Are you happy being a psychologist?’

Marina smiled. ‘They say all psychologists are damaged and are just trying to find their way home.’

‘They say all police are racist, violent thugs.’

‘Not the ones with sensitive eyes.’

Phil was feeling uncomfortable but exhilarated by her honesty. ‘So is that the case with you? Are you trying to find your way home?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m on the right path.’

She asked what appealed to him about police work. He was going to give her something boring and mundane: the hours were good, the pension scheme, something like that. But seeing her eyes, feeling the way they bored into him, and after the answer she had given him, he couldn’t just do that. She needed something more, something honest.

‘Well, it’s like this. You get a case. You get called out. Something’s happened. A robbery, a murder. Whatever. It’s a mess. There’s usually someone in tears, a house torn up, lives in pieces. Something like that. And they don’t know what to do next.’ He shrugged. ‘And it’s up to me to find out what’s going on. See what’s gone wrong and help repair it. Make sense of it.’ She was still looking at him. He felt suddenly self-conscious. This woman was unlike any he had ever met before. He picked up his wine glass to hide behind. ‘That’s it, really.’

She slowly nodded. ‘Did you go to university?’

He shook his head.

‘Did you want to?’

Another shrug. ‘Maybe. Wasn’t an option at the time.’

She toyed with the stem of her glass, frowning slightly. It left a lovely little crease in her forehead. ‘You like reading, I bet.’ A statement, not a question. ‘But you don’t tell anyone at work in case they have a go at you about it.’

He thought of the bookshelves in his flat. Filled with all sorts of stuff. Everything from philosophy and poetry to literature, biography and airport thrillers. He had a thirst for knowledge, for understanding, the roots of which he was sure lay in his childhood. He hadn’t found what he was looking for, though. The only thing that gave him real satisfaction was police work.

He shrugged again, growing even more uncomfortable with her questions.

‘You had a bad childhood, didn’t you? Lot of hurt there. Damage.’

The exhilaration was gone. Phil felt only discomfort. ‘Sorry. Off limits.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Marina, looking down at her plate. ‘I only mentioned it because I sensed it, that’s all. Because . . .’ She paused. ‘I recognised it. ’ She looked up, eye to eye. ‘There’s something in you that reminds me of me. I’m sorry if I’ve got that wrong.’

Phil looked at her, said nothing. She slid her hand across the table. They touched. Electricity sparked again. As if the touch confirmed that they understood each other instinctively.

‘D’you want to know about me? I don’t mind,’ she said. She opened up then, told him of her home life, how her alcoholic, abusive father had walked out on her mother and two brothers when she was only seven years old, coming back occasionally into the lives only to cause anguish and upset.

‘He was a bastard: a pathological liar, a bully, a cheat, a wife-beater,’ she said, her eyes clouding over with unpleasant memories.

‘And those were his good points,’ Phil had said, trying to turn her from the dark emotional path her words were sending her down.

She smiled. Continued.Told him how she was encouraged at school, how they praised her intelligence, cajoled her to push herself and her studies. She had willingly responded, eager to get away from her background.

‘So you’re not from round here? I didn’t think you had an accent.’

‘I’m from Birmingham originally,’ she said. ‘And that’s an accent you don’t want to carry round with you.’ She continued, telling him how she had been awarded a scholarship to Cambridge and chosen psychology.

‘I suppose I chose it because of my dad. I wanted to understand what made him the way he was. Why he did what he did.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yeah. But I didn’t need a degree in psychology to work out that he’s just a vicious, lazy bastard.’

Her mother had died soon afterwards of cancer, robbing her of the chance to see her only daughter graduate. ‘And I feel bad about that. I wanted her to be proud of me.’

‘I’m sure she is.’

Marina nodded, her eyes averted.

‘And what about your brothers?’

A shadow passed across her eyes as she spoke. ‘Let’s just say they grew up to resemble their father. I’m sure your colleagues in the Midlands have more to do with them than I do.’

Phil raised an eyebrow, didn’t push it.

‘So, you’re from Colchester?’ she said. ‘Lived here all your life?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, hoping she would laugh. She did. Politely. ‘And you’re not married,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Is there . . . anyone?’

A curious look crossed her face. ‘I’m living with someone. ’

Phil’s heart sank. ‘Oh.’

Marina shrugged. ‘It’s . . . we’ve been together a long time.’

‘I see.’

‘He’s . . . I was his student. He was my lecturer.’ She shrugged. ‘At least we waited until I’d finished the course. Well, more or less. He was . . .’

‘A father figure?’

‘I suppose so.’ Before Phil could say anything more, she went on. ‘Maybe it’s time I . . . Sometimes I feel more like his . . .’ She looked at her drink, swirling it round in the glass. ‘I don’t know. So that’s me. What about you?’

Because Marina had been honest with him, Phil felt that honesty should now be reciprocated. He spoke. And Marina listened attentively.

He told her of the pain of being abandoned, of growing up in various children’s homes and foster homes until Don and Eileen Brennan took him in.

‘They gave me everything I’d been lacking. A home. A sense of belonging, I don’t know . . . a purpose.’ He smiled, took a drink of wine. ‘Sorry. I’m not very good at talking about all this. It’s . . . I can’t express myself well.’

Her hand was on his again. She smiled. ‘You’ve told me everything.’

Their eyes locked once more. Different colours but the same in every sense that mattered. They went straight back to his flat.

He hadn’t had time to fully take in her body before they began making love. The connection continued. Nerves evaporated as they quickly fell into rhythm with each other, complementing and second-guessing what the other enjoyed, linked almost by a carnal telepathy. It was hot, physical, intense. Connected by more than just bodily sensations.