It bothered her. As Morrow stepped out of the front door into the brisk morning, walked down to the car and unlocked it, slowly and gracelessly fitted her odd shape into the driving seat and tucked her coat in before shutting the door, something nameless weighed on her. She started the engine, using only the mirror to reverse into the street, already uncomfortable when she turned from the waist.

She stopped at the bottom of the hill. Took a breath, shook her head and wondered what was wrong. A sense of discomfort but not the usual, this had a different quality. She started off again, pulling down the road, slower than usual. The radio buzzed with news of traffic jams and children’s birthdays, rumors of an accident on the M8. She punched the switch, turning it off, and drove into town, the roads quiet because it was so early.

She felt, she realized, as if she was driving with someone she’d had an argument with. But she was alone. Stupid.

She let it go, losing herself in the commands of the road, the red lights, the give ways, performing textbook brakes when pedestrians crossed the road thoughtlessly or other drivers made silly turns.

By the time she got to the station she knew she was angry with herself, but not why. It wasn’t that Danny had been in her house or met Brian, she wasn’t feeling soiled by that. It was Perth, something to do with Perth.

She parked up in the yard, walked up the ramp, through the booking bar, calling hellos to all the night shift, trying not to let the thread of the thought drop from her mind.

Through the lobby, into CID, she found Bannerman’s door open, his light on and the man himself in, reading over papers.

“Sir?”

“Morrow? You’re in early…”

“So are you.”

He waited for her to speak but she didn’t know what to say. “You want something?”

She didn’t know if she did. “Umm. Perth. This Perth thing is bothering me.”

He gave a little sigh and tapped the papers in front of him, eager to get on. “Fine, call it up and check it out.”

“Yeah,” she said, wondering why it felt wrong, “I’ll call, yeah…”

“Could you leave me alone now?”

“Sorry.”

She retreated, shut his door, stood looking at it. He’d say it was to do with her pregnancy. Anything she did that needed explaining was to do with her pregnancy. She wasn’t even annoyed about it anymore.

“Ma’am?” She turned and saw Harris walking into the incident room.

“You’re nice and early.”

“Yeah, my eldest is going to France with the school. Had to drop him early for the bus.”

She watched him disappear into the room, still feeling bothered and detached. She went into her office and opened her computer for the contact details for Perth. A blank email from N. Ketlin nestled among the departmental spam in her in-box. It had an attachment with a numbered title. She opened it, downloaded a fat file and clicked.

It was a twenty-four-second video of Sarah Erroll, alive, sitting at a table in someone’s garden with a fat gray cat lolling on the table in front of her, its tail curled around her wrist.

Sarah’s face was quite hard to make out because the day was so sunny and the shade so deep, but she was smiling and singing quietly to the cat as it purred and writhed on its back and she rubbed its tummy: you are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

Sarah looked like a child, moved like a child with the awkward grace of someone who had not yet fully flowered. Next to her on the table was a yellow packet of Kettle crisps and the iPhone they had found on the bed.

She finished singing and leaned forward, still not knowing she was being filmed, and kissed the cat’s furry side and then she sat back and saw that she was being filmed and her face looked dismayed and her shoulders fell and she shouted, “Nora! Fuck off with that bloody phone!”

Behind the camera Nora gurgled a laugh and Sarah looked straight into the lens and laughed back. The image froze.

Morrow covered her mouth with her hand, felt the bile rise high in her chest. She was letting it go, trading Sarah for peace with Danny, peace with Bannerman, ticking out her time. She was staring at the ceiling and doing it for the money.

She drew a deep breath, stood up and pulled her door open, screamed for Harris to come here.

He arrived at the door, startled, as if he expected her to be on the floor, delivering her babies.

“Get your fucking coat, Harris. We’re going to Perth.”