She disconnected and drove slowly past number five Mansfield Street, craning her neck to examine it for signs of life. The large, three-storey Edwardian sat in darkness, its driveway empty and all its curtains drawn. The lower two floors had ornate wrought iron bars across their windows, although in this area they were unlikely to be there for decoration. The same style of metalwork had been used to construct the balcony jutting from the top floor, as if the view at some point might have been worth sitting out for. From the safety of her seat, Jem looked at the cracked driveways and unkempt front gardens. Originally built for the local mill owners, the houses would once have been desirable properties, but half of them were boarded and derelict and the remainder had been split into bedsits and hostels, the grandeur of their architecture lost on the drunks and no-fixed-abodes who passed through them now.

A sudden flare of white behind Jem made her snap upright and then feel stupid as the headlights from Rosie’s patrol car became more distinct. She met Rosie on the kerb, her arms folded against the chill and the street’s eerie stillness.

“Chuffing hell.” Rosie shuddered, a frown creasing lines into her forehead. “Were you going to go in on your own?”

Jem took her response bag from the back, preferring to err on the side of caution, even if the job did turn out to be a hoax. “My dispatcher messaged me to say they had no previous calls from the address, so yeah, I’d have gone in on my own. Or knocked, at any rate. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

“They better not be.” Rosie aimed the beam of her torch at the ground-floor windows. “My goose pimples have got goose pimples.”

Feeling braver for having Rosie there, Jem led the way along a path that curved through an overgrown lawn and up the steps to a covered porch. “There was no answer when the call-taker tried ringing the mobile number back,” she said, using a solid brass knocker to thump the front door. “It went straight through to voice mail.”

“I hope he left a nowty message.”

Jem peered through the letterbox. “Can’t see a damn thing, and it smells…” she paused, grappling for the right word, “very unwashed.”

Rosie squatted at her side and nudged her over. “Police!” she shouted, pitching her voice a notch lower to lend it an impressive authority. “Open the door or lose it!”

Jem looked at her askance. “Are you going to kick it in?”

“Am I ’eck as like, but they don’t know that.” Rosie stood and assessed the doorframe, pressing down its length. “It’s locked, and I think it’s bolted top and bottom. I’d break my bloody foot.”