“What?” The word barely made it past the dryness in Rosie’s throat. She ungummed her lips with the back of her hand and tried again. “What time is it?”

“Half-twelve. Sorry, did I wake you?” Steph didn’t sound at all remorseful. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

Unlike Rosie, Steph had an enviable ability to function on four hours’ sleep. She would have been to the gym on her way home, slept like a log, and woken perked to perfection. Rosie wanted to reach down the phone line and throttle her.

“I only got home at nine. I had to take Jem across to Darnton, so I hit all the traffic.” She heard tapping in the background, as if Steph was typing, and then the ring of another phone. “Are you in work?”

“Yes.” The tapping stopped. “The shit’s hit the proverbial after the post-mortem on our lad from last night. The pathologist ruled the head injury as cause of death but couldn’t determine whether it was inflicted deliberately. He found other injuries consistent with an assault, though, and the tox screen was positive for alcohol, cannabis, and spice.”

“Fucking hell. Have you ID’d him?”

“Within the last hour. My lot are opening out the overtime for house-to-house, and I was hoping you might come and search the family manse with me and Ray before we get saddled with some knob who’ll drive us both to distraction.”

Rosie rolled over and stared at the ceiling. She really wanted to go. The case had the potential to be massive, and being involved at such a critical stage would put a tick in all the right boxes, should she ever take the plunge and apply for the National Investigators’ Examination. On the downside, she felt like death warmed over and didn’t want to risk making a mistake because she had a night shift hangover.

“Are you bringing the coffee?” she asked.

Steph didn’t miss a beat. “Latte with a double shot of espresso and two sugars. Get here for half-one and I’ll have it waiting for you.”

Rosie made it to Clayton ten minutes later than arranged, but Steph held up her end of the bargain, throwing in a couple of pastries in lieu of breakfast. As predicted, she didn’t appear troubled by scant sleep and a stressful case. She’d curled her dark hair into a pristine knot, her shirt was crisp and pressed, and her makeup was flawless. Sitting in the passenger seat of the pool car, Rosie dabbed crumbs from her uniform trousers but could do little else to improve her sleepwalked-through-a-hedge-backwards look.