‘I figured that,’ Garry replied. ‘But I thought they would probably only be giving out basic information later and thought I’d ask someone who might actually know something.’

‘Right . . . how did you get my number?’

Garry lowered his voice. ‘I know a guy at the phone company who can get numbers for me.’

He was really getting on her nerves now.

‘I wonder if you could pass him on a message for me. Have you still got you pen handy?’ Jessica didn’t wait for the caller to answer before continuing. ‘Tell whoever got you that number that they will be fired and possibly prosecuted. Can you spell “prosecuted” or does it have too many letters for you?’

Even if he was telling the truth, Jessica was fully aware she had no way of knowing who this journalist’s ‘guy’ was – let alone a way of getting him fired – but she might as well try to get someone sweating a bit.

‘Okay,’ Garry said dismissively. ‘I’ll tell them that . . . so do you want to make a comment then?’

‘No.’

The cheeky swine had gone right to the top of her list with that flippant remark.

Jessica hung up abruptly after considering sending the journalist packing with a two-word goodbye. She wondered if she should tip off Cole but thought that the journalist would have already gone over her if he was going to. Besides he was probably just full of it. One of those Scene of Crime people, or someone in uniform, had just blabbed and he was trying it on, seeing if she let anything slip. She would wait for the Sunday paper and then decide if she was going to hunt him down and make his life difficult.

As much as Jessica wanted to get on with the case, CID struggled with weekends simply because of everyone else’s working patterns. Courts, coroners, solicitors’ offices, forensics, their own press office and all kinds of other departments were either closed or trying to run with a cut-down weekend workforce. While uniformed officers had many more call-outs and lots more work to do across Friday nights, Saturdays and Sundays, plain-clothes officers were often left catching up with paperwork.

She had been planning on going home and possibly getting something to eat with Caroline but knew she wouldn’t be the best company given her mood. After her talk with the journalist, Jessica went back into the station to catch up on some paperwork, figuring it would be one less thing to do the following week. The desk sergeant was clearly confused, seeing as Saturdays were usually the day when plain-clothes officers were battling to get out of the door, rather than back in it.

She had her own office but wanted a bit of company. Rowlands was on the main floor doing some paperwork of his own so she went and sat opposite him. ‘Wotcha,’ she said.

‘You’re way too old to be talking like that.’

‘Oi. How are you doing anyway? Did Eric Christensen get home okay?’

‘I assume so. Someone took him in a car to identify the body then they were going to drop him back.’ Rowlands paused for a moment, looking up at her across the table.

‘How are you? Isn’t it this week that . . . ?’ He tailed off.

As much as they bickered and joked with each other, there really was affection under the surface, albeit strictly platonic. ‘Yeah, Monday.’

‘How long has it been?’

‘Eight months.’

‘Do you still miss him?’

‘Of course.’

Everyone who first joined CID started as a detective constable after spending around two years in training and a period before that in uniform. Generally, being a new DC meant you were the first point of call when the teas needed to be made or you could possibly be sent on a biscuit run on a quiet day. Woe betide a freshly recruited constable who brought back a packet of custard creams from a mid-morning dash to the local supermarket. Even hardened criminals didn’t get as much abuse as some unfortunate new recruit returning with something that didn’t have chocolate on it.

You learned pretty quickly.

On top of that really important work, you also got all the jobs no one else wanted. You would get the vast array of forms to fill in and handle the rest of the paperwork to file, sending it off to wherever it was needed. You would have to hunt through the mountains of papers or computer files to fulfil the freedom-of-information requests. You might have to work with the press office if you really annoyed someone, or perhaps liaise with other police forces around the country and make the endless hours of phone calls to rule people out from inquiries. If you were really unlucky, you could even get the task of hunting through hours of CCTV, phone logs or anything else in an attempt to find a breakthrough.

Every now and then you were actually responsible for a decent lead, something that might get an expression that wasn’t just a scowl from an inspector or chief inspector if you were really lucky. If you got a ‘well done’ or someone bought you a pint, you knew you’d had a really good day.

Those months were the initiation ritual where you found out whether you actually wanted the job, or whether you were up to it. Not everyone was.

After her introduction to the department, Jessica had been assigned to help out Detective Inspector Harry Thomas around two years ago. Despite his position, he was still eager to get out into the thick of the action. Desks weren’t for him and neither was the brown-nosing, which was why he hadn’t even tried for anything like a promotion. At first it was just a shadowing exercise set up by bosses looking to tick boxes and perhaps have a laugh among themselves. She was in her late twenties, emerging from five years of working in uniform and taking exams to qualify.

Harry was two ranks above her and twenty years older. He was an old-fashioned detective with not much hair, a paunch belly and a north-east accent – even though he hadn’t lived north of Manchester since he was a child. He also had a supposed attitude problem, certainly when it came to anyone in authority above him.

It had most likely been their DCI’s little joke at first – pair the new girl with the grumpy old guy who has sat at the same desk for a decade and see how much she wanted to be a detective then.

In fact, their partnership turned into a firm friendship and mutual respect. She liked how he got results and was completely committed to getting bad guys off the streets. He liked . . . well, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the type of conversation they would ever have had – feelings and all that. It would have been like confiding in your dad. Either way, he had put up with her for long enough and, for Harry, that was as close as it ever got to giving someone his approval.

‘I know you and Harry were close but I didn’t really know the guy,’ Rowlands said. ‘He always seemed a bit grumpy and people went on about leaving him be. I don’t think they really knew what to make of it when he took you under his wing.’

Jessica nodded. ‘He was certainly grouchy but I think it was just his way. When you got past that he had a really dry sense of humour.’

‘Is that where you got all your dirty jokes from?’

‘Only the good ones,’ Jessica grinned. ‘The thing was he had contacts everywhere. This killing this morning, if I’m honest with you, Dave, I don’t really know where to start. I’m just sitting here hoping forensics strike lucky. Harry would have been out there talking to people he knew. I’d ask him how he had those contacts and he’d just shrug and say he had a pint with them fifteen years ago.’

‘Blimey, I was still at school then.’

‘Exactly. This one time I was out with him and there was a homeless bloke he bought cans of lager for. He’d just put them down next to him and give the guy a wink. I didn’t know why he’d done it but he just said, “You’ll see.” Then, two weeks later we went back to the same guy. He was in the same window wearing the same clothes and Harry went and sat next to him on the ground.’