They said goodnight at the top of the stairs and went their separate ways, Jessica sliding under the covers next to Adam and then fighting for what she claimed was her share of them – roughly two-thirds, according to him.

‘What’s her real name?’ Adam whispered, cradling an arm around her.

‘I don’t know; I assume Rebecca.’

‘Who is she?’

Jessica pushed herself up until she was sitting, messing the covers up again. ‘I know I shouldn’t just invite people here – it’s your house too – but . . .’

‘I trust you.’

‘. . . when we were at Piccadilly last week and you were busy moaning, I had my purse nicked.’

‘I remember.’

‘I wasn’t exactly honest with you. I was hoping to be robbed and left a note for the pickpocket.’

‘That was her?’

‘Yes – she’s homeless and that’s all she had to live on. Everyone assumes this kind of crime is done by gangs but the type of people they use would usually stand out in a train station. I figured it was somebody else doing it for a reason. I suppose I—’

‘You wanted to help.’

‘I guess.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘No.’

Adam snorted and reached out to pull Jessica towards him again. Together they slid back down underneath the covers. ‘How old is she?’

‘She says seventeen – I don’t know.’

‘Is there someone you should call – social services or someone?’

‘If I do that, she’ll run. She’s not technically a child anyway.’

‘What do you want to happen?’

Jessica breathed deeply, cradling her head into his chest. ‘I really don’t know . . . sometimes it’s just nice not to be a bitch for a day.’

17

Jessica was awoken by Manchester’s usual soundtrack: it was pissing down. The rain clattered against the glass of their bedroom window, thundering off the roof, the pavement, driveway, car, everything – a melody that might as well be trademarked by the north-west of England. Adam’s sister, Georgia, had moved up from the south not too long ago. After a month, she’d asked Jessica if the weather was always this bad. That was during a particularly mild spell. If God truly had attempted to wipe humans from the face of the earth after giving Noah a cheeky tip-off, then it was as if he was still trying with Manchester.

Through the slit in between the door and the frame of their spare room, Jessica could see Bex folded up like origami on top of the covers, breathing deeply. Thank goodness she hadn’t been out in this overnight. Jessica was interrupted, jumping when Adam delicately touched the base of her back.

‘How is she?’ he whispered.

‘Sleeping.’

‘Good.’

Downstairs, they went about their business slightly more quietly than they did usually. Jessica clicked the toaster on and then checked the news on her phone.

First the BBC: some bollocks about London, as if everyone in the UK lived there; an article about the weather, because looking out of the window didn’t suffice; a yawn-fest about why people are living for longer. Is this what she paid a licence fee for?

The Guardian: something about politics; more about politics; something about America; more about America; a celebrity banging on about some cause. Boring.

The Daily Mail: a girl barely eighteen with her top off; an overweight woman berated for being too fat; someone else having the piss taken for being too thin; a photo of a monkey – isn’t that cute?; the royal family leeching their way around some colony Britain had once owned, grinning as the locals wondered who they were; something about why women hate themselves. Probably because they’re constantly having people point out that they’re too fat or thin, or having long-lens photographs of themselves without a top on being printed. Too depressing for this time of the morning.

The Manchester Morning Herald: oh shite.

Jessica sat in the supermarket cafe sipping orange juice and thinking about how soulless the place was. The clientele was a mixture of pensioners picking up their four-quid full-English breakfasts and single mums catching a quiet cappuccino before the chaos of their day kicked in again. The staff bustled between the tables, cleaning up and taking orders in their uncomfortable-looking uniforms. It wasn’t the people themselves Jessica found depressing, it was the fact that nobody really wanted to be there.

Or perhaps she was simply in a bad mood.

Garry Ashford slid into the seat across the table from her and plopped a copy of the Manchester Morning Herald in between them. ‘You buying?’ he asked.

‘You probably earn more than me.’

He grinned. ‘Shall we have an argument about whether journalists or police officers are paid the worst?’

Jessica stood and gave him an awkward half-hug. Were they mates? People who knew each other? Enemies? To a degree they were all three. She was a detective inspector, he was the Herald’s news editor. They shouldn’t really know, or like, each other – but they frequently seemed to be inexorably drawn to each other. If she was ever pinned down and waterboarded, Jessica might even admit that she liked him. Sort of.

‘Every time I see you, you’ve got different hair,’ Jessica said. On the last occasion she’d seen him, he’d been unshaven and his hair had grown scraggily to his ears. Now it was short again, sensible. He was even dressed quite smartly in a suit that almost fitted him, not the retro cords he usually wore. ‘Oh, I get it,’ Jessica added. ‘Mrs Ashford’s been on your case, hasn’t she? The wedding’s coming up and she doesn’t want you looking as scruffy as you usually do. Sensible woman; she’s growing on me.’

‘It was my choice actually – and as I keep telling you, she’s not Mrs Ashford. Well, not yet.’ He paused, before adding: ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

‘What?’

‘The usual cracks – something about her having cataracts or a mental disorder because that’s the only reason she would be interested in me.’

‘Pfft, as if I’d still be recycling all the same jokes. Who do you think you’re talking to?’

Garry raised his eyebrows and nodded at the newspaper between them. ‘I know who I’m talking to.’

‘Fine – but I hope you appreciate this one, I spent the entire car journey here thinking of it.’

‘Let’s hear it then.’

‘You told me before you’ve invited over a hundred people to the wedding, but how are you going to fit them all into the venue?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you’ve got her chained in the basement, there can’t be much room . . .’

Garry rolled his eyes. ‘Your jokes are getting worse – and I use the word “jokes” loosely.’ He paused to pick through the menu and then went to the counter to order himself a sausage sandwich.

When he sat again, he opened out the paper, showing the large ‘AUTUMN HAZE’ headline.

‘You do know it’s winter, don’t you?’ Jessica said, pointing at it.

‘November’s one of those months – a bit of autumn, a bit of winter. Besides, I think the “haze” word is the more important one.’

Jessica had read it on her phone before asking Garry out for breakfast. The article was chapter and verse on Holden Wyatt – how he had initiated the new members, the things he’d admitted to in the interview with her, insinuations that the death of Damon Potter could be linked to hell week, as could the hypothermia case from the previous year.

‘You said you had new information,’ Garry added.

‘You could say that . . .’

‘Oh . . . you’ve not brought me here to try to bollock me again, have you? It’s a solid story.’

‘You must know it’s going to prejudice his trial?’

‘The lawyers said it was fine – he’s not been charged yet.’

Initially, Jessica had thought Holden would be in court this morning, charged with the assaults. Cole had even told her as much – but the decision had been made by someone to keep him in custody and continue questioning him about Damon’s death, then they could talk to the CPS about what to charge him with. Jessica was out of the loop either way.