‘Because I’m thirty-four years old, and a thirty-four-year-old man sounds like a dick talking about birthdays.’ He took a swig of his beer. ‘And what with the whole food-poisoning thing, I didn’t feel I had much to celebrate.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘Plus you might have started singing “Happy Birthday” in the car.’

‘I’ll sing it out here.’

‘Please don’t. Things are bad enough.’

Jess’s head was reeling. She couldn’t believe all the stuff Mr Nicholls was carrying around. If it had been anyone else she might have put her arm around them, attempted to say something comforting. But Mr Nicholls was prickly. And who could blame him? It felt like offering an Elastoplast to someone who had just had an arm amputated.

‘Things will get better, you know,’ she said, when she couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘Karma will get that girl who stitched you up.’

He pulled a face. ‘Karma?’

‘It’s like I tell the kids. Good things happen to good people. You just have to keep faith …’

‘Well, I must have been a complete shit in a past life.’

‘Come on. You still have property. You have cars. You have your brain. You have expensive lawyers. You can work this out.’

‘How come you’re such an optimist?’

‘Because things do come right.’

‘And that’s from a woman who doesn’t have enough money to catch a train.’

Jess kept her gaze on the craggy hillside. ‘Because it’s your birthday, I’m going to let that one go.’

Mr Nicholls sighed. ‘Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. But right now I find your relentless positivity exhausting.’

‘No, you find driving hundreds of miles in a car with three people you don’t know and a large dog exhausting. Go upstairs and have a long bath and you’ll feel better. Go on.’

He trudged inside, the condemned man, and she sat and stared out at the slab of green moorland in front of her. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be facing prison, not to be allowed near the things or the people you loved. She tried to imagine someone like Mr Nicholls doing time. And then she decided not to think about it and hoped quite hard that Nicky hadn’t used up all the hot water.

After a while, she walked inside with the empty glasses. She leant over the bar, where the landlady was watching an episode of Homes Under the Hammer. The men sat in silence behind her, watching it too or gazing rheumily into their pints.

‘Mrs Deakins? It’s actually my husband’s birthday today. Would you mind doing me a favour?’

Mr Nicholls finally came downstairs at eight thirty, wearing the exact clothes he’d worn that afternoon. And the previous afternoon. Jess knew he had bathed, as his hair was damp and he had shaved.

‘So what’s in your bag, then? A body?’

‘What?’ He walked over to the bar. He gave off a faint scent of Wilkinson Sword soap.

‘You’ve worn the same clothes since we left.’

He looked down, as if to check. ‘Oh. No. These are clean.’

‘You have the exact same T-shirt and jeans? For every day?’

‘Saves thinking about it.’

She looked at him for a minute, then decided to bite back what she had been about to say. It was his birthday after all.

‘Oh. You look nice, though,’ he said suddenly, as if he’d only just noticed.

She had changed into a blue sundress and a cardigan. She had been going to save it for the Olympiad, but had figured that this was important. ‘Well, thank you. One has to make the effort to fit one’s surroundings, doesn’t one?’

‘What – you left your flat cap and dog-haired jeans behind?’

‘You’re about to be sorry for your sarcasm. Because I have a surprise in store.’

‘A surprise.’ He looked instantly wary.

‘It’s a good one. Here.’ Jess handed him one of two glasses she had prepared earlier, to Mrs Deakins’s amusement. ‘I figure you’re well enough.’

‘What is this?’ He stared at it suspiciously. They hadn’t made a cocktail here since 1987, Mrs Deakins had observed, as Jess checked the dusty bottles behind the optics.

‘Scotch, triple sec and orange juice.’

He took a sip. And then a larger one. ‘This is all right.’

‘I knew you’d like it. I made it specially for you. It’s called a Mithering Bastard.’

The white plastic table sat in the middle of the threadbare lawn, with two place settings of stainless-steel cutlery and a candle in a wine bottle in the middle. Jess had wiped the chairs with a bar cloth so that there was no green left on them and now pulled one out for him.

‘We’re eating al fresco. Birthday treat.’ She ignored the look he gave her. ‘If you would like to take your seat, I’ll go and inform the kitchen that you’re here.’

‘It’s not breakfast muffins, is it?’

‘Of course it’s not breakfast muffins.’ She pretended to be offended. As she walked towards the kitchen, she muttered, ‘Tanzie and Nicky had the rest of those.’

When she arrived back at the table, Norman had flopped down on Mr Nicholls’s foot. Jess suspected Mr Nicholls would quite like to have moved it, but she had been sat on by Norman before and he was a dead weight. You just had to sit there and pray that he shifted before your foot went black and fell off.