“Aye.” Rosie wasn’t going to argue with that one. “Did Frank own the house on Mansfield Street?” She didn’t think the Galpins would have been stupid enough to torch a property with their name on it, though, and she wasn’t surprised when Steph shook her head.

“It belonged to the deceased mother of one of their associates. Fiona Galpin didn’t just prey on vulnerable children, she used her own social care package as a trawling ground.” Steph’s voice had hardened, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. “She had three local council-subsidised care calls a day, ostensibly to help her dress and prepare her meals, et cetera, and all the adults we’ve arrested had links to her care agencies. She would take her time, get to know them, and suss out their susceptibility. Those she deemed desperate enough or easy enough to manipulate, she would offer jobs to. The woman the kids knew as Nancy was one of her first: twenty-five years old, with two toddlers, debts, and a deadbeat baby daddy. She swapped a minimum wage, zero-hours contract for a supervisory role in Galpin’s operation.”

“It’d be easier to sympathise had a child not died because of them,” Rosie said.

Steph hadn’t been making much eye contact with Rosie until then, but it was rock solid as she nodded her agreement. “I know. At the moment, we’re not sure how deep anyone’s involvement went. The Galpins were up to their eyes in it, but the other adults are all claiming their input was minimal, and three of them have pinned the fire on Frank. Number plate analysis from ANPR cameras has placed the FGN1 Range Rover close to Mansfield Street that same night. It’s not definitive proof by any means, but it’ll help us to build a case against him.”

“Will Ava and Chloe have to testify?” Jem asked.

“We’ve discussed the possibility of them testifying via a video link.” Steph’s dour expression altered to one of admiration. “Ava is definitely up for it; she’s a proper little spitfire, but Chloe’s struggling, and they’ll both be seeing a counsellor on a weekly basis.” She closed her file, as if to signal that her unofficial briefing was drawing to an end. Rosie felt Jem tighten her grip, readying them both for whatever was to come.

“I interviewed Adrian Peel on Tuesday,” Steph continued. “He no-commented the first hour, before going to pieces when I presented him with the burner and the bag of clothes you found.”

“Should’ve bet Smiffy a bloody tenner,” Rosie muttered.

“He never pays up anyway,” Steph said. Her expression was reminiscent of a cat full of cream, and Rosie knew the interview had gone precisely to plan.

“How much did Peel cop to?” Rosie asked.