'Yeah,' she said eventually. 'It's still crap. Even after all this time.'
'Two years,' he said, putting a hand under her arm and helping her to stand up, 'is not a long time. But I can tell you one thing that'd help.'
'What?'
'Eating something for a change. Stupid thought, I know, but maybe it'd help you sleep.'
She gave him a weak smile and put a hand on his shoulder, letting him pick her up. 'You're right.
I'd better eat. Is there anything in the van?'
2
The Station had been the police boathouse before it was sold and renovated, and because of that the new owner said it'd be all wrong if he couldn't return the favour now and let the police use it in their hour of need. He'd given them a room at the back of the restaurant, next to the kitchens, and it was warmer in there than in the van. It used to be the police locker room; now it was the staff's changing area. Their street clothes hung on hooks, outdoor boots and bags tucked underneath the bench that ran all the way round.
While Dundas went off to ferret in the kitchens, Flea slung down her black holdall and began to get undressed. She peeled the dry suit and the force-issue navy thermals down to her waist. Keeping the thermals on, she rolled the dry suit down to her ankles, kicking off the dive boots. She paused and stared at her feet because she was alone and could afford to. She flexed them and inspected the little part between her toes, rubbing at the flaps of skin, making them go red. Webs. Webbing on her feet like a frog. 'Frog girl', they should call her.