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door, then turned to Helen who was sitting at the kitchen table, feeding Alfie his lunch. When she looked up at him, Thorne recognised the expression. ‘OK, like even more of a twat.’
    ‘What did you expect?’
    ‘God knows.’
    ‘Seriously.’
    ‘I know,’ Thorne said. ‘It was stupid.’ He traipsed across and dropped into the seat opposite her. At the end of the table, Alfie was spitting out more than he was eating and happily smearing orange mush across the plastic tray of his high chair. ‘Really… stupid.’
    ‘Yeah, well it’s easy with hindsight, isn’t it?’ Helen leaned across to scoop a spoonful of orange mush – carrot? Sweet potato? – back into Alfie’s mouth. ‘So, there’s no need to beat yourself up about it.’
    Thorne said, ‘Yeah, I know,’ thinking: Since when did ‘need’ have anything to do with it. Of course, in hindsight, he
should
probably have thought things through a little more before marching across that bridge and trying to tell someone like Hackett what he should be doing. Not that any amount of thinking would have made too much difference in the end. Because Thorne had known from the moment Christine Treasure had told him to let it go, that he could not.
    ‘Come on, let’s get you sorted out.’
    Thorne had been staring down at the table and looked up, but he saw that Helen was talking to her son. He passed her a few feet of kitchen towel from the roll on the table and watched as she cleaned Alfie’s face and wiped away the mess on his chair. Thorne moved to stand up.
    ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’
    Thorne nodded, grateful, and sat back down. He had not got to bed until just before nine and had barely managed four hours’ sleep before waking and finding himself unable to get off again; trudging into the kitchen like a zombie in pyjama bottoms and a Hank Williams T-shirt.
    ‘One thing you might want to ask yourself though,’ Helen said. She put the dishes into the sink and tossed the dirty bib on to the worktop.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well… going in there like that, stirring things up—’
    ‘I wasn’t stirring anything up.’
    ‘OK.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever you call it.’ She walked back to the table and lifted Alfie out of the high chair. ‘Was it because you honestly still believe there was something iffy about that suicide the other night? Or was it really just because you were pissed off at being ignored?’
    Thorne shook his head.
    ‘Tom…⁠?’
    He had told Helen some of what Hackett had said to him. The lecture about making choices, the gleefully sarcastic comments about what had happened in that newsagent’s five months before. He hadn’t bothered to pass on Hackett’s final words of wisdom.
    The line that had stung more than anything else.
    Stop playing detective
.
    ‘Look, it would be perfectly understandable.’
    ‘Understandable or not,’ Thorne said, ‘that isn’t what’s going on.’
    ‘You sure about that?’
    ‘Yes.’ He looked at her. ‘I’m sure about that.’
    ‘Juice,’ Alfie said. ‘Juice.’
    Thorne watched Helen put Alfie down and walk across to the fridge. ‘Is that what you really think?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m just saying you need to ask yourself that question, that’s all.’ She reached into the fridge, her back to him. ‘Look, I’m not saying I blame you.’
    Thorne pushed his chair back hard. ‘Oh, good.’ He stood up. ‘And yes, I
still
think it’s bloody iffy, OK?’
    Helen turned, shaking the small carton of juice in her hand. She was still smiling, but suddenly her voice had a little less colour in it. ‘Maybe you should go back to bed. I’m taking Alfie down to the playgroup, so we won’t disturb you. With any luck you’ll get up in a better mood.’
    Thorne was already on his way.
     
    He waited until he heard Helen go out, then sat up and propped a pillow behind his head. He had made a note of all the numbers he thought he might need before leaving the station. Now, he