Rosie nodded, glad that her contact with the family would be indirect, limited to sifting through their possessions rather than dealing with their emotions, whatever those emotions might be. There were countless ways in which people reacted to a loss, and she knew Debbie Parker’s disdain for her son was liable to evolve at a moment’s notice, with the usual processes of anger, denial, and grief all on the cards. Rosie had seen people punch holes in walls and throw televisions through windows. When cast in the role of messenger, she had taken a few punches herself, assaults that often ended with her assailant collapsed in her arms, their sense of loss so complete that it stole everything from them. She had wept with grown men, held on to children, and gripped the hands of bereaved mothers more times than she could count, but she had never tried to save a child one day and had to look his mum in the eye on the next.

“Here we go. Number thirteen. Christ, unlucky for some, eh?” Steph said, parking outside a dour, pebble-dashed house. Its front lawn, mostly taken up by a large trampoline, had been stomped into a muddy pulp, and overflowing bins stood like sentries along a crazy paving path.

Rosie’s legs felt leaden as she got out of the car, the stench of nappies and rotting dog food like a slap in the face after half an hour of breathing Steph’s designer perfume.

Steph joined her on the pavement, briefcase in hand and binder readied. “Cocktails at the Blue Door tonight. My treat.”

Rosie murmured her accord without committing. She’d always found it easier to keep the peace and think of an excuse later than to immediately derail one of Steph’s plans. “After you,” she said, holding open a gate that almost fell off in her hand. They navigated the path in single file, aware of curtains twitching in neighbouring houses, and setting a dog barking before Steph could knock.

“Who is it?” a woman yelled. “If it’s the press, you can fuck off!”

Steph readied her warrant card. “It’s DS Merritt, Ms. Parker. We spoke on the phone.”

The door opened a crack, allowing a woman with straggly bleach-blond hair and mascara-smeared cheeks to glower at them. Her hand shot out, grabbing Steph’s ID and pulling it closer.

“It’s Debbie,” she said. “Not Ms. Parker, just Debbie.”

“This is PC Jones,” Steph said. “She’s going to help with the search.”

“You were the one what found Kyle?” Debbie directed the question at Steph, stepping clear of the door and escorting them into an uncarpeted hallway strewn with shoes and school bags and small coats.

Steph paused to pick up a pink jacket, draping it over the banister so it wouldn’t get trodden on. “No, Ms.—Debbie. I was called to the scene by PC Jones, who did everything she could to help Kyle.”