Mark spat half a mouthful of beer back into his glass. ‘Bloody hell, mate, no wonder you’re annoyed.’

‘That’s not even the worst bit. Most people told me to eff off or whatever, or just ignored me. It was about eleven in the morning and there were these kids who I’m sure should have been in school. They were about thirteen or something. Anyway, they were standing just across the street shouting “kiddy-fiddler” and “paedo” at me.’

‘What did you say back?’

‘Nothing, I mean what kind of funny comeback is there to that?’

‘Hmm, good point. I might remember that next time my boss is giving me a hard time.’

‘What, you’re going to call him a “paedo”?’

‘Well, as you pointed out, what’s he going to say back?’

‘Probably “you’re fired”.’

Mark seemed to be in a perpetual state of laughter but Garry could hardly blame him. ‘Why don’t you just quit and look for something else?’ his friend asked.

‘I don’t know. There’s not much out there. Besides, I keep telling myself it’s going to get better. I don’t want to end up having to move back with my mum and dad. It can’t get much worse than a twenty-five-year-old moving back in with his parents.’

‘If your mum’s anything like mine, at least you’d get your washing done for free.’

Garry laughed half-heartedly. ‘That’s one thing I guess.’

‘You know what you need? A girlfriend or a big story – or both.’ Mark stood up after downing the rest of his drink and shook his glass. ‘You want another?’

‘Yeah, go on. Same as usual.’

Mark walked off to the bar and Garry slumped back into the seat thinking about his parents. He came from a small town just outside Ipswich, the kind of place that was great to live as a kid. All his mates lived within a few minutes of his house and there were loads of wide-open spaces to kick a ball around and get into trouble. But it was also the type of area that became decidedly duller as you got older. Everyone pretty much knew everyone else and, no matter who you were, your parents would always end up finding out anything you got up to.

His mother’s inquisitorial technique was often as basic as, ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me, Garry?’ It was hardly ‘Columbo’ but, given the number of things some nosy neighbour could have spotted him being up to, he frequently confessed to things she had no knowledge of.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the pubs wouldn’t serve anyone under age because they knew who everyone was. There was nowhere to hang out or buy fast food and not even a decent cinema or bowling alley. All of that, along with the fact that none of the girls you had grown up with were now remotely interested in you, meant by the time you reached eighteen, you were desperate for a chance to get out into the real world.

University had given him that option. Garry was at least pretty good at school, albeit lazy, but he had earned the A-level grades needed to study journalism at Liverpool, which was exactly what he wanted. As with most teenagers, he had seen plenty of enormously appealing American movies about college life and thought university would provide something similar. In a way it did but only if you saw yourself as one of those anonymous kids in the back of the parties in all those films.

He had a reasonable time living on campus, made a few good mates he was still in contact with and got a decent grade at the end of it all. He even had an on-off girlfriend for a few months, although the ‘off’ part was definitely her choice, before becoming her permanent decision.

Like most people about to graduate, he had left the job-hunting a tad late, although he resolved pretty quickly he didn’t have any intention of returning to his home area. Big cities were definitely for him and he had spent two years in Liverpool, somehow making a living from freelancing around and doing a bit of bar work cash-in-hand. Generally he didn’t do much of any note but then he got his big break, or so he thought.

He responded to an advert to become a junior reporter on the Herald and miraculously didn’t mess up the interview. He even had his hair cut for the occasion, albeit not that short. After eighteen months, he was gradually coming to the conclusion he had made a huge mistake.

Garry looked over to see Mark still standing in line at the bar and then heard his phone ringing. The number wasn’t one he was familiar with but he answered anyway. ‘Hello?’

The caller introduced themselves.

Garry was confused at first, asking why they were calling from a different number but, by the time the person on the other end had finished telling him their story, the reason was obvious.

5

Considering she had been woken up early and had a strong suspicion the biggest case of her career was hurtling towards a dead end, Jessica knew she was in a mood her flatmate Caroline would describe as ‘particularly sweary’.

The phone call wasn’t helping. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’ she asked the man on the other end of the line, who was definitely going on her shit-list when she hung up. It was a fairly short list, consisting of the DCI, one of her ex-boyfriends and the pervy bloke who ran the chip shop at the bottom of her road.

‘My name is Garry Ashford,’ came the reply. ‘I work for the Manchester Morning Herald. I wanted to ask you about the body you found this morning.’

Jessica knew the media hadn’t been given any information yet. Later on, they would be told a standard line about a body being found and tests being done. If the son had been informed, they might even be given the name of the victim. Next week would be when the media were brought in and asked to cooperate. They would get the details of the victim and asked to give out a phone number for members of the public to call if they thought they had information.

Manning that line was definitely the worst job when you were a constable. Trying to pull out anything remotely useful from the mass of nonsense calls you had to wade through was a nightmare. Everything had to be followed up just in case that one piece of information you had deemed useless actually ended up being something vital. Someone would have to oversee the operation and Jessica thought it was a job that had Rowlands’s name all over it.

‘Which body are you talking about?’ Jessica asked, wondering if straight-batting the caller would work.

‘Hang on, let me check. Er, somebody Christ or something . . . sorry, I can’t read my own writing. Er, Yvonne, Yvonne Christensen.’

Those words meant there would be two names finding their way onto Jessica’s shit-list. First, this journalist, second, whoever leaked him the name. Everything released to the media by the police had to go through the press office. They got decidedly annoyed if something they hadn’t approved ended up in the papers or on television. Working with the media was even part of the training nowadays and, worse than that, the DCI would be annoyed if he didn’t get his chance to go on television and make an appeal.

‘How did you get that name?’ Jessica asked.

‘You know I can’t tell you that. I’ve got to protect my sources and all that.’

So he wasn’t just a know-it-all, he was a cocky sod too, thought Jessica. ‘Look, I’m going to have to refer you to the press office. There’s no one in at the moment but I know there will be a statement going out later. If you phone their main number, somebody will come back to you in a bit.’

Jessica thought she was keeping her temper pretty well in check. The press-office speech was something she had given to people in the past, usually when she was far more junior and didn’t know any information even if she wanted to give it out.