Speed eating was a skill most emergency service workers perfected in their first year. Those who didn’t tended to return to a nice nine-to-five, where lunch came bang on twelve o’clock, lasted an hour, and didn’t give you an irritable bowel. Six years as a response officer had made Rosie a past master, and she was finishing her cherry cobbler as her mam shared out seconds in Yorkshire puds between the children.

“Tammy’s got a boyfriend,” Sam announced to all and sundry, lofting his entire pudding on his fork and biting into it. “And she kissed him round back of Kumar’s.”

From the corner of her eye, Rosie saw Tammy flush beetroot red and stop chewing.

“No, I never,” Tammy said. “I don’t even like boys.”

“That’s my girl,” Rosie said. “You keep your options open, love. There’s plenty of time to make these difficult life choices at a later date.”

Tammy frowned, the advice flying right over her ten-year-old head. “Whuh?”

“Never you mind,” their dad said, his deep voice almost a growl. Although he tolerated Rosie’s flexible approach to her sexuality, he’d never quite managed to throw off the yoke of his strict Christian upbringing. Thanks to his wife’s ardent liberalism, he no longer developed a twitch when Rosie brought a girlfriend over for tea, but he’d never be a card-carrying PFLAG member.

Rosie dabbed her lips with a tissue and then stood and kissed his bald head. “It’s been a pleasure, as ever, but duty calls.”

“There’s a parcel of leftovers in the kitchen,” her mam said. “Mind how you go out there.”

“I will.” Rosie leaned down and hugged her. “Thanks for tea. Text me if you need anything.” Straightening, she eyeballed the kids. “Behave yourselves, rabble.”

A chorus of farewells followed her to the doorstep, where she swapped the muggy warmth of the small terrace for the nip of Manchester in mid-March as she jogged across to her car. A quick check of her watch gave her fifteen minutes for her twenty-minute journey. With the following night’s tea safely stashed on the passenger seat, and the radio blaring out a song she almost knew the lyrics to, she turned onto the main road and stuck her foot down.

Chapter Four

The skin on the woman’s arms chronicled her advanced years and poor state of health. The surface was rippled into dehydrated ridges, and it was covered in old bruising and white scars marking previous falls or careless nudges against sharp-edged furniture. She mumbled something nonsensical as Jem tightened a tourniquet around her arm, but she made no attempt to pull away or otherwise acknowledge what Jem was doing. Jem shrugged out of her fleece and used a paper towel to wipe the sweat from her own forehead; the small bedroom was stifling, its air thick with the smell of incontinence and poor personal hygiene.