This information had no effect on Kim whatsoever, because the facts remained the same. The woman had still chosen to drink; she had still chosen to get behind the wheel of a car; and the seven-year-old boy was still dead.

Understanding the ‘Why’ of an action brought with it an expectation of empathy, understanding or forgiveness, however brutal the act.

And, as her past would bear out, Kim was not the forgiving kind.

NINE

At 1.30 a.m. Kim headed through the communal office that housed the police constables, PCSOs and a couple of civilian staff.

‘Good, you’re here.’

The other two detectives that completed her team were already seated. There had been little time to recover since closing the Dunn case. But that’s how her team rolled.

The room held four desks in two sets of two facing each other. Each desk mirrored its partner, with a computer screen and mismatched file trays.

Three of the desks accommodated permanent occupants but the fourth sat empty since they had been downsized two years earlier. It was where Kim normally perched herself, rather than her office.

The space with her name on the door was commonly referred to as The Bowl. It was nothing more than an area in the top right-hand corner of the room that was partitioned off by plasterboard and glass.

‘Morning, Guv,’ Detective Constable Wood called brightly. Although half-English and half-Nigerian, Stacey’s desk held a sign stating, ‘The only way is Dudley’. She wore her hair short and natural. Her complexion and gentle features suited the style.

On the other hand, DS Dawson looked as though he’d left a hot date. Dawson had been born wearing a suit. And just as some men were unable to look smart even in Armani, Dawson was the opposite. His numerous suits were not expensive but he managed to make them look good. His shoes and tie normally dictated his activity. Kim glanced to the ground as he headed to the percolator. Oh yes, he’d been on the pull all right. Just a few months after being accepted back into the loving embrace of his fiancée and young child.

But it wasn’t her business, so she left it alone.

‘Stace, you get the board.’

Stacey jumped up and reached for the black marker pen.

‘No identity yet. Wallet wasn’t on him so we’ll go with what we know: white male, mid-forties, low income, four stab wounds, first one fatal.’ Kim paused for a moment, giving Stacey chance to catch up.

‘So, we need to get a timeline. Did he go to the pub and his wallet was taken afterwards or did he simply take his dog for a walk?’

Kim turned her attention to Dawson. ‘Kev, talk to the uniforms, check with the bus service and taxi ranks. It’s a busy road; someone might have seen something. Get the witness statements for yesterday. Bryant, check for any missing persons reports.’

Kim looked around the room. Everyone was moving.

‘And I’ll go and brief the boss.’

She took the stairs two at a time and entered without knocking.

DCI Woodward’s five foot eleven stature could be gauged even from a sitting position. His torso sat straight and proud and Kim was yet to spot a crease in his crisp, white shirts. His Caribbean heritage had gifted him with skin that belied his fifty-three years. He had begun his career as a constable on the streets of Wolverhampton and had persevered through the ranks during decades when the Police Force was not as politically correct as it liked to think it was.

His unwavering passion and pride was reflected in the bookcase displaying his Matchbox car collection. The police vehicles took centre stage.

He picked up the stress ball from the edge of his desk and started kneading it with his right hand.

‘What do we have so far?’

‘Very little, Sir. We just started outlining the investigation.’

‘The press have already been on the phone. You need to give them something.’

Kim rolled her eyes. ‘Sir …’

He squeezed the ball harder. ‘Forget it, Stone. Eight a.m. tomorrow. Give them a statement: body of a male etc.’

He knew she hated talking to the press but he periodically insisted. Her career progression plan for herself differed from his plan for her. Rising any further in the ranks took her further away from actual police work. Any further escalation on the food chain and her day would be filled with codes of practice, policies, arse-covering and godforsaken press conferences.

She opened her mouth to argue, but a slight shake of his head discouraged that course of action. She knew which battles to fight.

‘Anything else, Sir?’

Woody put the stress ball back and took off his glasses. ‘Keep me updated.’

‘Of course,’ she said, closing the door behind her. Didn’t she always?

She entered the squad room to a mixture of expressions.

‘We have good news and bad news,’ Bryant said, meeting her gaze.

‘Hit me with it.’

‘We have a positive identification on the victim … and you’re not going to like it one little bit.’

TEN

Alex was startled from sleep by the sound of The Beatles singing ‘I’m a Loser’ from her mobile phone. It was her private joke to signal that she had an incoming call from Hardwick House. It wasn’t as amusing at almost three in the morning.

She glared at the phone for a couple of seconds, trying to gain her composure, eventually silencing John Lennon.

‘Hello …’

‘Alex, it’s David. Can you come over …?’ His voice disappeared into the distance but she heard him shout for someone to get Shane back into the common room. ‘Look, we’ve had an incident between Shane and Malcolm. Can you get here?’

Alex’s interest picked up. ‘What type of …?’

‘Eric, get Shane in there and close the damn door.’

He sounded fraught and Alex could hear a lot of shouting in the background.

‘I’ll explain when you get here.’

‘On my way.’

She dressed quickly but thoughtfully in fitted jeans that hugged her hips and caressed her bottom. On top she put a cashmere jumper that revealed just a hint of cleavage when she leaned forward; invaluable when visiting a house full of men.

A light dusting of blusher and a quick pout of lipstick and the ‘just out of bed’ look had been carefully constructed. She grabbed a notepad from the kitchen drawer on her way out.

As the three-litre injection engine cut through the silence of the leafy road, Alex considered her options with Hardwick House. The partnership had become one-sided and the benefits of the liaison were becoming less attractive to her.

She’d been careful when choosing the facility on which to bestow the gift of her expertise. After researching the local good causes, Hardwick House had been the only bunch of do-gooders she could stomach.

She had wanted to see if there were any candidates for her research but when she found no particularly good subjects she had grown bored and just used them to perfect her manipulation techniques. Now, even that was growing tiresome, Alex thought as she pulled onto the drive and killed the engine. She sensed a gradual withdrawal somewhere in her future.

The door was opened by David, the only remotely interesting person in the building. At thirty-seven, his black hair was showing just a hint of grey that added depth to his features. He carried himself with the ease of someone who had no idea how attractive they were to the opposite sex. For him, Alex would break her ‘married men only’ rule.

She knew little about him outside of Hardwick House other than he’d sustained serious damage to a knee in a sporting accident. She’d never asked because she didn’t care.

She also knew he worked tirelessly for the men within his remit, getting work placements, benefits, basic education. For David, they were souls to be saved. For Alex, they were target practice.