Forensics still worked at the home of Mary Hales, which had been turned into a lair of tragedy and ferocity, leaving behind a trail of hundreds of pieces of evidence, some large and some invisible to the naked eye. Only chemicals and trace experts could figure out where hints and clues might be hiding.

Kelly’s phone was glued to her ear all day. No one wanted answers more than she did but HQ barking down the phone at her wouldn’t make anything go faster. Murder had a funny way of producing budgets and she could send what she liked to the lab, but results took time, even when they paid extra.

The relative tranquillity of the morning vanished the minute she left Ted in Carlisle.

Eden House had woken up. From the lull late yesterday afternoon, it was now consumed with the buzzing activity of bodies running from room to room with printouts, uniforms gathering kit to attend witness interviews, phones going off and a hundred emails into Kelly’s inbox.

It felt good. When the team was required to step up, it did. HQ would have to wait, like the rest of them. The extent of violence inflicted upon Mary Hales was, at least, somewhat encouraging. Such attacks were rare and Kelly had briefed the team on the personal nature of the injuries, as well as Ted’s finding of two weapon patterns. No other knife matching the type of blade had been found at the property. This begged the question: why did the killer leave one knife but take the other?

Kelly yawned. She couldn’t help herself. Watching autopsies was emotionally draining. She took the stairs up to her office because it was quicker than waiting for the lift. She found DS Umshaw on the phone to the Highways Agency discussing CCTV. Kelly made them both a coffee and noticed that the incident room was fairly quiet. The activity was on the ground, outside and around the village of Braithwaite where Mary had been assaulted. It was situated west of Keswick and was a favourite start point to the walks around Whinlatter Forest. Kelly couldn’t think of a more peaceful existence than living under the shadow of a great mountain range, Derwent Water not too far away, and the smiles of strangers come to tackle a physical challenge and share a pint at the end of it.

Braithwaite folk were used to strangers but they were a close bunch too. It was emerging that Mary Hales was a private resident and didn’t socialise much with locals. They swapped words in the local shop, and exchanged pleasantries when the weather changed, but none of her close neighbours seemed to have a significant relationship with her. All said the same: they wished they had.