‘I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mrs Corley,’ he said. ‘My name’s Jack Garrett and I’m a reporter. I’ve come to see how you are doing, whether you’ve got any more news.’

She looked at him for a moment, as if she was going to slam the door in his face.

‘If Deborah’s killer is going to be caught, we need to keep her story in the news,’ he said.

She faltered at that, and then just turned and went inside. Jack followed.

It looked like she had spent the past three weeks cleaning the house, perhaps just to keep herself occupied. There was a strong smell of air freshener and the stair rails that climbed out of the hallway looked polished.

Jack followed her along a tiled hallway, stepping past a fishing rod and bait box, and into the room at the front. There was a dining table in the room behind, and the brief glimpse out of the rear window gave a view of a neat lawn surrounded by a splash of flowers. The room looked spotless. There were the tracks of a vacuum cleaner in the carpet, and the fireplace gleamed, the flowered tiles reflecting the light streaming in through the window. Photograph frames sat in a neat row on the mantelpiece. This had been a happy home.

As Jack looked out of the window, he was surprised to see the reservoir in the distance, where Deborah had been found. What must it feel like to see that all day, knowing what it meant?

‘I know this is not a good time,’ Jack said, as he settled into a chair, to make sure he stayed, ‘but I meant what I said, that we need to keep Deborah’s story in the news.’

She looked at the television for a moment. It was playing but the sound was turned down, as if it was there for the sake of distraction, not entertainment.

‘The police told me that, but it doesn’t make it any easier,’ she said. ‘Reliving it.’

‘And how are you?’

Tears welled up in her eyes and she took a deep breath. ‘Just getting by.’

‘What about your husband? How is he doing?’

She looked down. ‘Not good,’ she said. ‘He wants to go back to work, but he can’t face being there, because he knows everyone will be talking about Deborah.’

Jack shuffled in his chair, knowing that he was getting to the difficult part. ‘You know there’s been another?’ he said.

She stared into space for a few seconds before looking down at her lap. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The police called earlier and told me to expect press visits. I’m expecting Mike back soon.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘For a walk,’ she said. ‘He does that a lot now.’

Jack couldn’t respond to that. ‘Can you think of any reason why your daughter should be a target?’ he said instead.

Her chin puckered and her hand shot to her eyes, to wipe away the tears.

‘None at all,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘It’s a bloody cliché, I know, but she was a lovely girl, would do anything for anybody, and then some bastard comes along and just takes her away.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she said, her voice softer now, ‘but that’s what he is. Can you imagine what it is like to watch your daughter leave the house and never return? It had seemed like just another day. If I’d known…’ and she shrugged. ‘Well, things would have been different.’

‘You would have kept her safe at home, if you’d known,’ Jack said gently. ‘But you couldn’t know, and that’s why it is so cruel.’

She nodded, a smile breaking through the tears. Then there was the slam of the front door, followed by footsteps.

‘It must be Mike,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wary.

A small black-and-white mongrel bustled into the room and sniffed at Jack’s hands, checking out the stranger in the house.

‘He’s harmless,’ she said, her voice husky, and then looked up when Mike Corley walked in. He was dressed in jeans and a jumper, holding a dog lead. Jack guessed his age as early fifties. The faint boozer’s flush to his cheeks and the sag of his belly told him that he was dealing with his loss quite differently to his wife.

When he saw Jack, he scowled.

‘Hello, I’m a reporter,’ Jack said.

‘I guessed that much,’ he said sharply. ‘You didn’t waste much time.’

‘I know the police have told you about another girl being killed.’

‘So you want one more quote?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll give you one: get out of my fucking house and leave us alone.’

‘Michael!’ Mrs Corley said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Corley,’ Jack said, ‘but the more press exposure you get, the more chance the police will have of finding whoever killed Deborah.’

‘I’m a fucking police officer. Do you think I don’t know how the police work?’ Mike said, tears brimming onto his lashes. ‘You see, it’s not really about Deborah, is it, because when it was hinted that she’d had affairs with married men, it was like some kind of sick fatal attraction story, an excuse for you people to pick apart her life just to sell your papers? You don’t care who you hurt, provided that you put a few words on the page. So no more. Not from me.’

‘I’m not saying the press are perfect, but this is your chance to tell Deborah’s story.’

Mike pondered that for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘And I don’t want anything to do with it.’

Jack stood to go, and then pulled out one of his business cards and handed it to Mrs Corley. ‘Call me if you change your mind,’ he said.

Deborah’s father didn’t move as Jack left the house.

Chapter Eight

Laura tapped her pen against her hand as she sat opposite Don Roberts.

He was a thickest man in tracksuit bottoms and a black T-shirt, two gold chains around his neck. His grey hair was cropped close to his head and large tattoos dominated his forearms: a bulldog in boxing gloves and a black panther, the claws scraping along the veins that bulged under his skin. Middle age was making its mark, and although Don was well-built and muscular, the curve of his paunch was visible under his T-shirt.

Don hadn’t said anything since their arrival. He had stared at Carson, and then at her, and then at Carson again. But Laura could see the hurt in his eyes, the desperate need for someone to tell him that it was all a mistake, that his daughter would walk into the house and they would all go back to normal. His hands were trembling, but he continued to stare fixedly at Carson, ignoring his wife’s wails from the kitchen.

‘Mr Roberts,’ Carson began, but then fell silent as Don raised his hand.

‘Why didn’t you find her?’ Don Roberts asked, his voice quivering and loaded with emotion.

‘We don’t know how long she was there,’ Carson said. ‘Once we’ve done a full examination…’

‘Bullshit,’ he snapped. ‘Jane was missing and you didn’t find her because you weren’t looking hard enough, because of what you think of me.’

Laura saw Carson take a deep breath to calm himself, because what he really wanted to say was that if the call had come in earlier, then perhaps they would have had a better chance of finding her. Instead, Carson shook his head. ‘We treated her like we treat everyone,’ he said. ‘Just tell us what you can about the last time you saw her.’

Roberts clenched his jaw. ‘That won’t bring her back,’ he said, his teeth gritted.

‘It will help us catch her killer, stop him from doing it again.’

‘Where are you looking?’

‘We haven’t started yet,’ Carson said. ‘We’re hoping you might help us, give us some pointers. Who were Jane’s friends? What about a boyfriend?’

Roberts stiffened at that, and then took a deep breath and sat forward, slowly and deliberately, the leather chair creaking softly underneath him. ‘I am not having you dig into Jane’s life. It will become about me, not her, because I’m hated in this town.’

‘Who hates you?’

Roberts shook his head. ‘I know who hates me, so I’ll do the searching. And since you couldn’t find Jane alive, I’ll be the one to find out who killed her.’