‘How is that story?’ Dolby said.

Jack frowned. ‘It’s not the hell-hole you want it to be,’ he said. ‘Just people like all of us, trying to make their way in life. It’s just that some do it better than others.’

‘Knock on some doors. We could run a good life on benefits story instead,’ Dolby said.

Jack sighed. He knew how they worked. You talk to people about their struggles, and then make sure you get a picture of them in front of the big television, grinning.

‘What do you want, someone with plenty of kids, or a brown face and a foreign accent?’ Jack said.

‘Don’t be like that, Jack,’ Dolby said. ‘It sells papers, you know that. It gets people talking in the pubs.’

‘And it gets innocent people beaten up.’

‘Okay, okay, you’ve tweaked my liberal conscience,’ Dolby said, sarcastically. ‘What about delinquent kids, causing mayhem as their parents sit in drinking?’

Jack smiled. ‘Lucked out again, Dolby. They have private security on there now, and so even those kids are probably better than they used to be.’

‘Private security?’ he said.

‘There’s a van that patrols the estate. Just a couple of bald men in black satin jackets, you know the type. It sounds like the residents pay for them.’

Dolby thought about that and then said, ‘Find out what you can about that. Why are people on the lowest rung paying someone to do the work the police should be doing?’ He leaned forward. ‘You never know, this could turn out to be a story to fill your pinko heart, the noble working class looking after itself.’

‘You really are an arsehole, Dolby,’ Jack said, shaking his head.

‘I know, but I write your cheques, so be nice to me.’ He tapped at his watch. ‘Press conference soon. I don’t want you to miss the show.’

Jack got to his feet and managed a small smile as he headed back towards the sunshine.

He was a spot of calm surrounded by noise. The jumpsuits and boots. Detectives deep in consultation. The air around him felt still. No one saw him. No one spoke to him. He could see them though. He watched them, saw how they gathered in small groups. Talking, laughing, always moving around him as if he wasn’t there.

He could tolerate the uniforms, because they knew their place, that it was all about eight-hour shifts and then home, nothing more. It was the detectives that he fucking hated. Glory hunters, just egos in pastel shirts.

He smiled, and then lifted the cup to his mouth to hide it. Beware the quiet man.

Chapter Eleven

Jack had to park some distance from the police station because the spaces were taken up by the out-of-town television crews sorting out their equipment, and the growing huddle of newspaper journalists who sucked on cigarettes as they waited for the show to start.

The police station was shiny and new, on the edge of town and visible from the motorway, its red brick and high windows towering above the low-rise office complexes that surrounded it, high steel fences guarding the car park. Jack saw Karl Carson ahead, Laura’s boss, a bald-headed bully of a man, making chit-chat with some of the reporters. They’d come across each other before, had fallen out and then made up again, and so when Jack got up close, Carson just smiled and made sure he used plenty of force when he slapped the visitor sticker onto Jack’s shirt.

Carson turned and walked back into the police station, holding the door as the journalists trooped past. When Jack got close, Carson muttered, ‘No trouble, Mr Garrett.’

‘Not if you behave yourself, Inspector,’ Jack said, and winked.

They were ushered to a room on the ground floor that looked out onto the police canteen. Jack went to the back as everyone else fixed their microphones to the tables at the front, the television people jostling for a prominent spot, so that their question could form a part of their edited highlights, ego over news. Cameras lined the back of the room. Deborah Corley’s murder three weeks earlier had provided fodder for columns filled with tales of her social life – how she was a pub regular and liked the company of married men. The television people just wanted to fill the late afternoon news slots, but the newspapers were wondering what the new murder might give them, needing to write it up for a deadline, and so the air crackled with tension. It went quiet though as Carson entered, with Joe Kinsella and Laura right behind him. As everyone settled into place, Jack ended up behind a television camera, his view restricted to what he could see over the cameraman’s arm.

Carson and Joe sat down behind a long white table and glanced at the cluster of microphones in front of them. On a board behind them was the logo of Lancashire Constabulary, a police crest over a blue ribbon. Carson reached for a jug of water and poured a drink. Jack watched Laura as she moved to the back of the room, tall and dark, in a grey trouser suit, her dimples flashing as she smiled her thanks at those reporters who moved aside for her. Jack made a space for her and she joined him against the wall. He straightened himself. Although just under six feet tall, his slouch made Laura look taller than him.

He leaned towards her. ‘I suppose there is nothing you can tell me that Carson won’t say?’ he whispered.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘No special favours, you know that.’

He smiled. ‘I missed you this morning. It was an early start.’

Laura blushed, and then her eyes went to the front as Carson cleared his throat into the microphones. He heard her sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll make it up to you later.’ And when Jack looked, he thought he saw some mischief in her eyes.

One of the cameramen looked at Laura, the trace of a smile on his lips, and then Jack noticed the boom microphone and the headphones clamped to his head. He must have heard their exchange, but he just shrugged an apology to Jack and then shifted his focus back to Carson, who was getting ready to speak.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ Carson said, his voice coming out with a slight tremble. ‘I will make a short statement and then answer a few questions.’ He looked at the press corps, and then read from a sheet of paper. ‘This morning, the body of a young woman was discovered in woods in Blackley. She died a few days ago. We believe that this may be connected to the death of a woman in Blackley three weeks ago, Deborah Corley, the daughter of a Blackley police officer. We are trying to confirm the identity of the dead woman, but when this has been done, we would ask that you respect the privacy of the victim’s family.’ Carson took a breath and looked around the room again, his bald head reflecting the gleam of the camera lights as he tried to catch the eye of each journalist in turn. Then he looked directly towards the cameras at the back of the room, keen to make the most of his chance to address the public. ‘We are not ready to reveal details of her murder, but I would like to say this: whoever carried out this barbaric act must be caught. If you know something, don’t keep it back. Don’t shelter this man. If you have any information that might help to catch this person, come forward.’ Carson paused to let his words sink in, and then said, ‘I will be limited in what I can say, but if you have any questions, please ask them now.’

Someone stood up at the front.

‘Martin Ashton, Sky News,’ the man said. ‘Do you think this is the work of a serial killer?’

Carson pursed his lips for a moment, and then said, ‘That term tends to overexcite. The post-mortem examination has not yet taken place, but, yes, we are looking at the possibility that the same person killed both women, if that is how you define a serial killer.’

Someone else rose to his feet.