There was a policeman by the door, taking a cigarette break. He almost stopped Sam from going in. The glare from Sam made him give way. The police activity was less than Sam expected. There was a female officer in uniform in the kitchen, making drinks. Helena was lying down on the sofa, a cold cloth over her head. There were two uniformed officers with her. Sam looked back into the kitchen. He saw that some of the empty vodka bottles were lined up on the worktop, taken out of the recycling bin. When he looked into the policewoman’s eyes, he saw pity. He turned around and walked into the living room. He went straight over to Helena and knelt beside her. He gripped her hand. Helena’s mother was there too, sitting in a chair by the window, sobbing quietly into a lace handkerchief. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. The two policemen glanced at each other, and then one said, ‘Can we speak to you in private, Mr Nixon?’ ‘Why not here?’ They shrugged and then gestured towards a woman in black jeans with purple tints in her hair, standing in the corner of the room.
