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sternum as we slowed.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘Stopping.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I need a piss.’
    We’d passed a sign for services a little way back. Now another flashed by: one mile to go. Derwent eased off the accelerator some more. I checked the time and bit my lip.
    ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you were in a rush. You took long enough about getting changed.’ His voice was soft but I didn’t make the mistake of thinking that meant he wasn’t angry.
    ‘It took me five minutes.’
    ‘More than that.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Are you arguing with me?’
    I didn’t answer.
    The car park was almost deserted, with just a few cars dotted here and there. Derwent parked in the space beside the one reserved for police cars, right in front of the main building, making a point that he could have used the dedicated space but he chose not to. I’d already opened my door before he turned off the engine, desperate to get out and stretch my legs. When Derwent got out, he didn’t even look at me. He locked the car and walked away, into the building, and I had no idea if he was planning on leaving immediately or if he needed a longer break. I followed, leaving him plenty of space.
    The services were always bleak, but especially so at that time in the morning. Most of the shops and catering concessions were closed but one of the coffee shops was open.
    Derwent was in and out of the gents in record time. He headed for the counter and I came to stand next to him while a yawning teenager sold him coffee.
    ‘And a chicken sandwich.’
    ‘Is that breakfast?’ I asked, and got no answer. He paid and took it to one of the tables, sitting down, which I took as a clue that we’d be there for a while. I got coffee for myself. I had no appetite for food. My stomach ached and so did my jaw. I had been clenching it, I realised.
    I sat down and watched Derwent picking the meat out of his sandwich. ‘No bread?’
    ‘Carbs,’ he said, as if it was a complete answer. He drank some coffee and swore, then picked it up and strode back to the counter.
    ‘If I wanted to wait fifteen fucking minutes to be able to drink my coffee, I’d ask for it to be extra-hot.’
    ‘Sorry,’ the teenager mumbled. His fingers trembled slightly as he took the cup and poured a little away, then filled it up with cold water.
    ‘That’s better.’ Derwent came back and sat down. ‘How’s yours?’
    Too hot. Undrinkable. ‘Fine.’ I glanced across at the counter, where the teenager was wiping down the coffee machine with his back to us. His ears were red. ‘Was that necessary?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Did you have to be so unpleasant? I know you’re in a bad mood, but—’
    ‘ You’re in a bad mood.’
    ‘I’m not the one who just swore at a poor kid doing a shitty, badly paid job in the middle of the night.’
    ‘What the fuck is your problem, Kerrigan?’
    ‘You should apologise.’
    Derwent’s eyebrows went up. ‘To him?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Not to you.’
    ‘Why would you need to apologise to me?’
    ‘I have no idea but I know when I’m getting the silent treatment.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m not talking to you because you’re in the kind of mood where you’re going to use anything I say as target practice.’
    ‘Bullshit.’
    ‘It’s true.’ I sipped my coffee, managing not to wince as it scorched my mouth.
    ‘You’re the one who’s pissed off with me,’ Derwent said.
    ‘And why would that be?’ I traced a pattern on the lid of my cup. The coffee was cold compared to the rage that was making it hard for me to see straight. My voice was level, though. ‘Maybe because I work very hard to be seen as more than a token female on the team, and I’ve proved myself time and time again. And despite all of that, you thought it was okay to feel me up in front of all our colleagues.’
    ‘Oh, buy a sense of humour. It was a joke.’
    ‘To you, maybe.’
    ‘It was nothing. It was a couple of minutes of dancing.
    No one was