I put my hands on the coffee cup and feel the heat spread through my body. ‘Thanks, Tom. Just what I needed. How have things been?’

‘Ah, you know, same old same old,’ he smiles. ‘Not been the same without you though.’

‘It’s good to be back. What a doozy to return to, eh?’ I motion at his face, ‘Moustache looks good, bit trendy for Manchester, isn’t it?’ I say, jokingly.

He pulls a mock offended face.

‘And don’t think about going any further,’ I continue. ‘Man-buns are not permitted in this office.’

He laughs, his brown eyes twinkling.

‘Maybe this place was better without you after all!’

‘Ouch.’ Now it’s my turn to look playfully hurt. ‘Shall we head to briefing and I can fill you in?’

He nods and we walk towards the briefing room. It’s a small room at the back of the station with blue plastic chairs arranged in a line, facing towards a pull-down projector screen. A laptop is attached to a projector that’s years old and whirrs loudly when in use.

Detective Angela Poynter is sitting at the desk, eyes scanning the laptop screen. She glances up when we enter and gives me a small wave.

She is our technological expert, incredible with computers but socially, a little awkward. Part of me wonders if she’s even noticed that I’ve been off. Angela’s appearance has remained, unlike Tom’s, absolutely unchanged. Dirty blonde hair is scraped back into a messy ponytail; thick framed glasses perched on her nose. Her green blouse is paired with black combats and black boots; her chosen uniform. Functional, if not overly fashionable.

I move to the front of the room, my heart pounding, like it’s my first time leading a briefing. I take a breath, clear my throat and address the team.

‘First of all, hi everyone, it’s good to be back. Thank you for the flowers you sent me in hospital, they were much appreciated.’

Tom gives me a thumbs up and I can see Angela’s eyes drawn to my abdomen.

‘OK,’ I say, turning to the projector screen. ‘Onto the task at hand. Bob is the Senior Investigating Officer on this one, but I’ve had an email to say he’s having some sort of family emergency this morning. He should be in shortly.’

I take another calming breath.

‘This morning, at just before seven, we were called to The Ice Bowl in Altrincham. The manager there, Tony Farrier, found the victim, deceased; presumed murdered. Martin hasn’t been able to recover anything from the killer yet, no prints, too early for DNA. No CCTV at the rink either. We believe the side door was used to enter and leave; it was hanging off one of its hinges.’

I press a button on the laptop and a picture of Anna Symons, alive and well, appears on the screen. It’s a picture lifted from the internet of the actor at a recent awards ceremony. Her hair is intricately set; her subtle make up amplifies her chiselled jawline and feline eyes. She wears a backless red dress with gold high heels. She peers over her shoulder in the way only famous people can get away with.