Jessica turned her phone off.

Suddenly she was blinded as the dazzling white lights clinging to the gantry above fizzed to life with an ominous crackle. ‘Fu . . .’ Jessica disguised her surprise with a cough as she blinked ferociously, trying to see anything beyond the edge of the desk. From the side, DCI Cole emerged out of the heavenly glow, Rosie pinning a radio microphone to his jacket and telling him how fabulous he looked. Without a word, he edged past Jessica and took his seat in the seat farthest away.

Moments later, the bulbous figure of Porky Pomeroy stepped forward from the other side of the light, creating a near-eclipse as he waited for Rosie to clip a microphone to his lapel. He waddled up the three steps to the stage, puffing out his mighty bright red cheeks in exhaustion. His hair wasn’t as thin or as grey as Cole’s, but that wasn’t saying much considering they barely had enough to weave a sock between them. Jessica focused on his blubbery face, wanting him to look at her to gauge the recognition. It was only when he got to the top of the steps and his head swivelled to face her that he gave Jessica the tiniest of glances and a minuscule nod, the type you might give to someone in the street if you thought you recognised them but had no idea who they actually were. Then he peered back up again and attempted to squeeze his way into the seat between her and Cole.

Jessica had been waiting for even the merest hint that he knew who she was but there was nothing. It was the kind of look he’d give to anyone who worked for GMP – ‘Hello, do you know how important I am? Where are the biscuits?’

Rosie came up the stairs and attached a radio microphone to Jessica’s collar and they were away. Despite any reservations about who Graham Pomeroy was and what his job entailed, Jessica had to admit that the assistant chief constable was the consummate pro during the press conference. She kept staring steadily at her glass of water, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye just in case they asked her something ridiculous, but he relished the moment. First he blathered on about how proud he was of the people who’d worked on the case, then it was how their tireless efforts had got a dangerous man off the streets, how everyone’s sympathies went out to the victims’ families, how it proved GMP was in the ‘painful process’ of reforming following the Stretford Slasher scandal of a few months previously, and so on and so on.

After he’d finished speaking, it was time for the questions, which meant a race to ask the most moronic thing possible. Jessica tried to say as little as she could, doing the normal thing of praising everyone she’d ever worked with, met, spoken to, once glimpsed on a train platform in Cardiff and so on. Rule one of corporate PR bullshit: if in doubt, talk up other people, thereby making yourself seem not only like the genius that you are but humble at the same time. After that, pay tribute to the families of the victims, then pay tribute again, and – if you can – go for it a third time as well. Rule two: you can never pay enough tributes in press conferences. Because she had to, Jessica praised everything about the families, from their patience to their cooperation. She was one step away from eulogising their tea-making skills before realising that the teas had been made by the support officer.

Jessica knew she sounded like a recording of every other police press conference ever given, with the added complication – and skill – of simultaneously trying to ignore Rosie’s thumbs-up and Tourette’s-like nodding from the side.

It was everything that she hated about the job: the spin, the shite, the ‘aren’t-we-great’ attitude. And now, here she was: one of them, nodding along and spouting the same old bollocks everyone else always did.

As soon as the conference was over, Jessica unclipped the microphone, dropped it on the floor, downed her water, and slipped through the side door into the corridor. She walked as quickly as she could through reception, telling Pat where he could shove his custard creams when he made some crack about her hair, and then bounding through to the area where the constables congregated, looking for the first familiar face.

As it was, DC Rowlands was at his desk, hammering away at his keyboard.

‘Busy?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Tough, let’s go for a ride.’

‘Shall I take all the stuff we’ve got about you-know-who?’

‘Yes.’

Dave picked up a thick wallet while Jessica signed out a marked pool car. She edged out of the car park, around the satellite vans and reporters’ vehicles and then ambled along Stockport Road.

‘You all right?’ Dave asked.

‘Why?’

‘You’re driving under the speed limit.’

Jessica ignored him, keeping the car steady. ‘Did you see the press conference?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘All right, I did. It was bloody horrendous – but that wasn’t your fault.’

‘That was Pomeroy next to me. I could practically hear his arteries bursting.’

‘I saw the caption. Did he say anything to you?’

‘Not a peep.’

Jessica headed towards Alan Turing Way, a personal favourite every time she saw the sign, not because she had any interest in mathematics or code-breaking, simply because it made her think of her father. As a child, he had taught her about the Second World War and how Britain had cracked the German Enigma code. She later found out that, despite his efforts for his nation, Turing had been prosecuted for being gay, which made her like him even more. Perhaps that was where her natural suspicion of anyone in authority came from? He was useful enough to help win a war but not allowed to love in the way he wanted.

‘Are we going to Freddy Bunce’s office?’ Dave asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

Jessica followed the road out towards the motorway and then took the turn that led towards the country road they’d been on while tracking the builder’s van. It was deserted, and when Jessica reached the large house, she parked the police car across the driveway, blocking it.

‘What are you doing?’ Dave asked, unclipping his seatbelt and looking over his shoulder.

Jessica had already opened her door. ‘If they’ve got any neighbours, I want them to notice the car. Wait here, I’ll be right back.’

Before he could protest, Jessica was out of the car, scrunching her way across the driveway towards the front door. She used her anger at the press conference to block out the claustrophobia the towering building evoked in her.

The doorbell offered an old-fashioned, satisfying ‘ding-dong’. Jessica waited, pinching her own skin again, making herself focus, wondering if she would ever get over those feelings when she visited a large house.

After a minute, one of the large double doors swung open, revealing a perfect Barbie doll of a woman staring in confusion past Jessica towards the police car. ‘Is there a problem?’

Jessica showed her identification, making sure the woman had enough time to memorise it. ‘Are you Janine Bunce?’

‘Yes, there’s not been a problem with Freddy, has there?’

‘No . . . I was simply wondering where he is.’

After first seeming a little worried, Janine’s posture changed entirely, a frown spreading across her otherwise smooth skin. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I’d rather speak to Mr Bunce.’

‘He’s working.’

‘Can you tell me where?’

Janine bit her bottom lip, tilting her head to the side and peering over Jessica’s shoulder again. With her bleached hair, long nails and slim waist, she didn’t exactly seem the type to own two building companies. ‘Gimme a minute.’

Janine pushed the door until it was almost closed and disappeared back into the house. Jessica turned towards the car, watching, feeling that buzz inside her. This was like the old days. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. There was no way Janine had simply popped inside to check an address.