Inviting smells drift from the open doors of greasy spoons on our left, all vying for custom on this cold December afternoon. My stomach rumbles, protesting at my seeming lack of interest in filling it. Sandwich boards narrow the pavement, forcing Liam and I to walk in single file. A huge, concrete ramp leading to a car park emerges on the other side of the road; a flimsy advertising board offers cheap parking for upcoming musical events at the Arena.

Arriving at a small pub on the corner of the street, we are greeted by a police cordon. Two men wearing waterproof coats, scarves and gloves approach us, introducing themselves as reporters from the city’s newspapers. They attempt to ask us questions relating to the crime scene, which they know nothing about, judging from how general their questions are. Even though they are from competing news outlets, they seem very much a team.

Without a word to them, Liam and I flash our badges at the gatekeeper of the closed street and duck under the waist height blue and white plastic strip. When I look back at the two reporters, I see that one of the men has retrieved a flask from his bag and is filling a cup. It seems they are prepared for a long stay.

‘Parasites,’ says Liam, just loud enough for them to hear.

Ahead of us, on the kerb, are a number of white vans, affirming we have arrived at the designated location.

We sign in and accept the white, protective suits we have been handed. I struggle into mine, before tying my hair in a tight bun and pulling on a hairnet. Blue gloves and foot coverings complete the look. Liam takes a little longer to slip into his and when he is done, we approach a narrow alley at the back of the pub car park.

Martin, head of the Scene of Crime Officers, notices us. He says something to another suited man, before approaching us, shimmying under the police tape at the mouth of the alley.

‘Piper,’ he nods in my direction, ‘Sutton.’

‘What have we got?’ asks Liam.

‘Well, John’s already had his fun with the body. He’s just nipped to the office but he’ll be back to talk you through what he’s found. It’s a mess. We’ve been here all morning and we’re just finishing up, then it’s your crime scene. Wait here a minute, I’ve got something that might interest you.’

With that, he turns and walks purposefully back into the depths of the alley before returning with an evidence bag in his hand. He holds it up so that I can see its contents; a single page that has been torn from a book. And I know which book.

‘We might be in luck with this one. If you look here,’ Martin says, pointing to the top left-hand corner of the page, ‘there’s a smudge. I reckon we’ve got at least a partial fingerprint here.’

He assures us that he’ll put it through the system as soon as he can and let us know if it yields any results. He asks us to follow him and advances towards the alley again, though he stops at the entrance.