Amongst the crowd, I spot Ben’s bushy hair bobbing along to the rhythm of the music. I watch as he moves towards Anna’s friend who has stayed on the dancefloor, sipping on her drink and swaying to the music.

Ben approaches her and they begin to dance, bodies becoming closer until he puts his hand on the back of her head and leans in, pressing his lips to hers. After a few minutes, he pulls away and they smile at each other. The friend motions for Ben to follow her, and they make their way, fingers intertwined, towards the table containing the director, author and actor.

Amicable words are exchanged between Anna and her friend whilst Ben hangs a few steps back, presumably a bit star struck at being in the presence of one of his favourite authors. The friend and Ben then leave the bar via the front door, probably retreating to one of their houses.

As the video finishes, DCI Bob’s final words from the briefing echo around my head; it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

19

I stand in front of the door for a minute or so, gathering my thoughts. Over the years, I’ve been to hundreds of bereaved families who have been mourning the loss of their loved one, but it never gets any easier. Today, it’s the turn of the Symons family. Their sadness, a few weeks on, may have become tangible to them, perhaps almost understandable, and here I am, ready to unstitch the healing wound grief had so callously inflicted.

I puff out my cheeks and press the doorbell, grimacing at the catchy jingle at odds with the reason of my visit. A woman with dark brown hair and greying roots, styled in a bob, pulls the door back and peers out from behind it. Her eyes flicker to our badges before closing, mentally preparing herself for the next hour. Long eyelashes and plump lips lend her a glamorous appearance; her thin body agile, as if she has tried to stave off the ageing process by keeping as fit as possible.

She introduces herself as Linda, Anna’s mother, and then wordlessly summons us in. We step over the threshold and Liam bends down and begins untying his laces.

‘Don’t worry about your shoes, love,’ she says, waving us on to follow her through the hall and into the room on the left.

The living room is decorated in natural tones; ivory walls, charcoal carpet, a black corduroy corner sofa. A pine sideboard sits against one wall; the end door slightly ajar as paper tries to escape the confines of the cupboard. A matching television stand is positioned in the corner of the room.

‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’ she asks.

We place our orders and she retreats to the solitude of the kitchen where I can hear her as she goes about her business; the rush of the water as she fills the kettle and the clattering of crockery.