I can’t believe it.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ I say, tersely. ‘You and Ed – the writer of The Threat – are in a bar in Altrincham discussing business. Ed is the author of a novel containing a particularly grisly murder scene. You directed the movie adaptation with the same murder scene, in which Anna played the victim. Then, on the night you both happen to bump into Anna in a bar, she is murdered in the same way.’

Amaro’s face visibly pales. I realise that the details of the murder must be a revelation to him. Or perhaps he realises just how bad this looks for him.

He asks to be excused for a few minutes and when we acquiesce, he stands up and walks the few steps to the trailer’s door. I follow him and as I take a seat on the top step, I inform him that we have a warrant to search the trailer. He shrugs his shoulders as he pulls out a cigarette and paces to and fro.

To my right, Liam pushes himself out of his seat and walks to the tiny kitchenette area. He tugs a pair of blue gloves out of his pocket and pulls them on.

He opens a few of the drawers, has a quick scan and a poke about before closing them again. He grasps the handle of a cupboard, pulls it open and I crane my neck to get a better view of what he is doing.

Inside the cupboard is a brown wicker basket, which I assume is being used as a washing basket due to the clothes spilling out of it. Liam begins to rifle through the basket, whilst I keep my eye on Reuben.

He has stopped pacing and is now sitting on the ground, the burning stub of the cigarette between his fingers, his eyes following a row of ants that scurry about.

Liam waves his hands in the air to get my attention before unfurling an item of clothing. He holds up a blue boiler suit. It is covered in blood.

‘Mr Amaro,’ I say.

He looks up from the ground, the dying cigarette smouldering in his mouth.

‘You’re coming with us.’

6

I stretch my legs out as far as they can reach on the sofa and listen to Darren bang around in the kitchen. I’ve dubbed tonight ‘the make-or-break dinner’ in my mind and I’ve been dreading it for a while.

Darren and I have been dating for just under three years now, but it feels like it’s been coming to a natural ending for a while now. He’s never been a fan of my line of work. He appreciates the importance of the job, but doesn’t like that it’s me on the frontline – a feeling that has grown even stronger since the incident almost a year ago. In fairness, I can’t say I blame him, I’d probably feel the same if the roles were reversed.

I turn onto my side and push my head into the cushion, closing my eyes. My thoughts drift to the moment Darren and I first met. I was admiring a painting of a man from the Victorian era in a quiet wing of the Manchester art gallery when a stranger had sidled up. He had commented on how accurate the artist had been in his rendering and when I enquired if he had known the man depicted in the painting, he pulled a mock-horrified face, claiming that he thought I was the sitter in the portrait.