Rosie looked at her messages again. The slightest word from Jem would usurp Steph in the running order, but there was nothing beside a text from her mam, so she curled under the blanket on the sofa to return Steph’s call.

Steph was still aloof when she answered, clearly irritated that Rosie hadn’t jumped to it and rearranged her weekend.

“Did you have your phone switched off?” she said. “I’ve tried calling you umpteen times.”

“It was on.” Rosie didn’t attempt an explanation. She’d checked her mobile whenever it had buzzed, and let it go to voice mail on seeing Steph’s name.

“Are you still with Jem?”

“No, I’m at home.” Rosie somehow managed to keep her voice level. The last thing she wanted was Steph smelling blood in the water. “I’ll meet you at Clayton in half an hour.”

Her eyes strayed unbidden to the phone’s screen as she hung up: no messages, no missed calls. She debated texting Steph to cancel their meeting and then drawing the curtains and locking the front door. She could put her jammies on and drown her sorrows in something strong enough to let her sleep; it wasn’t as if a hangover would make her feel any worse. Instead, she retrieved her keys and walked out into the rain.

The Clayton car park was unusually busy for a Sunday, suggesting plenty of staff were taking advantage of the open season on overtime. Unable to face a mob of concerned colleagues, Rosie nosed into a space in the far corner and waited out the shift changeover. She would undoubtedly run into people who knew her, but at least their numbers would be fewer. Turning up in plain clothes got her past the locker room unscathed, and she was halfway along the main corridor when Smiffy came out of the kitchen and almost collided with her. His delighted yelp brought out most of his van, their brews and butties in hand.

“Good to see you, love,” he said, his customary gruffness tempered by genuine warmth. He squeezed her biceps, the closest he would ever come to giving anyone a hug, and pressed a KitKat into her hand. “You look peaky, PC Jones. Get this down your neck.”

“I will. Thanks, Smiffy.” She leaned against a motivational poster featuring a line of shiny-faced bobbies all ready to go out and do their best. Most of them sported Biro fangs and moustaches. “Are you helping investigate the fire?” she asked. Smiffy ran her shift pattern, so it was a fair assumption, given that he was here on his day off.

“Aye. We’ve been on the house-to-house all weekend, and we’re fingertip-searching this afternoon. It’s taken a while to shore up the foundations and make the building safe.”