‘We’ll see who’s incompetent then, you old hag,’ Jessica told the radio.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Tom Carpenter had sold his story to a red-top tabloid. ‘CRAZED COP GLASS TERROR’ put across his version of events in all its made-up glory. Harry had been painted as an out-of-control drink-fuelled corrupt officer. She had tried calling Harry half-a-dozen times since the verdict but his phone wasn’t on.

It summed up Jessica’s week. Even though the SCD had taken their case, her department was still getting hammered on two fronts. She had been forced to brief one of the SCD officers the day after handing the files over, talking them through her notes and letting them know where everything was on the computer system. The smug git spent the entire two hours with a ‘We’re cleaning up your mess’ look on his face that Jessica had felt desperate to wipe off.

She had been put on the case of a man who robbed an off-licence with a weapon. The shop’s owner had been smashed in the face with a claw hammer and had his week’s takings ransacked from the safe. Jessica had spoken to the distraught victim who kept repeating he was pleased his wife hadn’t been present as she often worked that shift. Jessica did her best to work as she usually would, gathering the CCTV footage and so on, but could feel her heart wasn’t in it. Every time she was driving, whenever she went to bed at night or had a quiet moment, her thoughts drifted back to Nigel Collins. She felt bad for not focusing fully on her job but had invested so much energy in the ‘Houdini’ case, it was hard to forget.

By the Friday night, she was sick of the week as a whole and pledged to curl up at home with her old friend: the local supermarket’s own-brand cheap rosé wine. Caroline and Randall had gone off to set a few things up in their new flat, ready to start moving, and she had the place to herself. She was halfway through watching a repeat of some talent show she had no interest in when a thought dropped into her head. She had gone through two-thirds of the bottle by herself, which she was pretty sure was influencing her decision-making. She picked her phone up from the coffee table, scrolled through her list of contacts, and pressed the ‘call’ button when it reached Garry Ashford’s name.

It rang twice before being picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Garry, it’s Jess Daniel.’

‘DS Daniel?’

‘Yeah, call me Jess.’

‘Okay . . . Are you all right?’

‘Wanna come keep me company?’

‘Sorry?’

‘One-time only offer.’

‘Er, yeah, I guess . . .’

The poor guy sounded scared stiff. Jessica gave him her address. ‘Oh and Garry,’ she added. ‘Don’t wear the tweed. Do bring your notes about Houdini and do bring wine.’

She hung up.

Garry Ashford arrived forty-five minutes later with a carrier bag full of notebooks and two bottles of wine; one red, one white. ‘I didn’t know which you preferred, so bought one of each,’ he said.

‘Actually I usually go for rosé,’ Jessica replied with a wink, taking the bottles from him.

In the time before him arriving, she had phoned up the takeaway a few streets over to order some curries. The first bottle of wine had begun to kick in and she really fancied something hot to go with it but they hadn’t arrived.

As Garry walked in, Jessica thought he was actually dressed like a functioning member of the human race that evening. He was wearing a pair of regular blue jeans with a red T-shirt. She let him into the flat and led him into the living room, before leaving one of the bottles of wine off in the kitchen and opening the other. She took an extra glass into the living room and handed it to her guest, before filling both his and her own.

He was sitting on the sofa and had started taking his notebooks out from the carrier bag. Jessica sat next to him. ‘Christ, Garry, did you make all this effort for me? Your hair looks as if you’ve only been dragged through a hedge once tonight instead of the usual three or four times.’

Garry smiled. ‘I feel privileged now I’ve finally achieved the Holy Trinity of insults.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’ve now taken the piss out of my name, dress sense and looks.’

Jessica did actually feel a bit bad, realising not everyone would get her sense of humour. ‘Sorry, I was only joking.’

Garry looked at her. ‘It’s all right. At least I don’t look as bad as that photo we used of you on the front page. I mean what kind of crazed woman grins underneath a headline about a murder?’

Jessica playfully punched him in the shoulder. ‘Oi.’

They both laughed and then Garry asked the obvious question: ‘Why am I here?’

Jessica downed the rest of her glass in one and looked at him. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. You know they’ve taken the case away, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve looked over my notes and the files and it’s been in the back of my mind the whole time that I’ve missed something obvious. I guess I just thought . . . I guess it’s because you’re not police. Before I’m ready to let it go completely I suppose I wondered if you might have picked up something I missed.’

‘I doubt it. I’ve only been following where you lot have been, talking to the same people and so on.’

‘Maybe . . .’

Garry took out his first notebook but as he did the doorbell went.

‘Curry,’ Jessica said.

‘Oh, right.’

‘Don’t worry, I got you something mild and wimpy. I thought it seemed your style.’

Garry shook his head slightly but then answered. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

After Jessica returned with a grease-soaked paper bag and some forks from the kitchen, Garry opened his first notebook. Jessica had a peek at the contents just in case she could make out a name that could be his source.

The journalist clocked her doing so. ‘Their name isn’t written here, y’know.’

‘Whose?’ Jessica replied with a half-smile.

Garry nodded and started to talk her through some of the people he had spoken to and what they had said. Jessica knew she probably shouldn’t but, given she was now off the case, she filled in some of the blanks for him. He asked if he could make new notes on what she had told him.

‘Okay, fine,’ she replied. ‘But only because you brought wine.’

They ate as they worked. Jessica had gone for the hottest chicken dish on the menu but Garry struggled with his mild lamb meal. Jessica laughed at him while he told her she stank. It seemed like a childish insult but was probably true.

The journalist spoke about Stephanie and Ray Wilson and how Stephanie hadn’t had too much to say but had genuinely seemed disturbed by the loss of her friend. He said the husband had phoned the paper every day for the week afterwards to remind them he and his wife were available for photographs if the paper needed them.

As he got to his notes about the meeting with Jessica herself, he veered off to tell her about the pressures he was under and how his career hadn’t turned out the way he had hoped. He talked about his editor and how sales were affecting all of the staff. Until the last few weeks, he had been thinking of quitting and would have done already if it wasn’t for the money.

‘What else would you do?’ Jessica asked.

‘I don’t know really. Write? I have no idea. It’s not easy to just drop everything. You don’t want to end up going back to your parents to admit you’ve made a right mess, do you?’

Jessica couldn’t disagree with that.

Garry told her about his meeting with Marie Hall and the way he had been bullied into buying a host of drinks to get any details about Wayne Lapham. Jessica admitted she hadn’t known who the woman was before but laughed at Garry’s pub story. Then they both dissolved into giggles when he spoke about the dressing gown the woman had been wearing.

‘Was it peach?’ Jessica asked.

‘Eew, yes. She hadn’t fastened it completely either.’