Yes, she replied. Sorry.

Not your fault. I’ll see you later. Be careful out there.

She took heart from the traditional sign-off, replying in kind and then allowing herself a moment to sip her coffee and share half her muffin with the fat pigeon waiting hopefully at the side of the car. She opened the window fully, bringing in clean, rain-scented air that cleared the steam and made her think of Jem. It always seemed to be raining whenever they met up. She wasn’t sure she’d even recognise her in the sunshine. She flicked another chunk of cake at the pigeon.

“Good thing it’s always pissing down here, eh?” she said, and set off toward the exit.

Twenty-four Tarrick Street, North Curzon, sat at the far end of a neat terraced row. Its garden was well tended, with a raised bed recently dug over ready for planting, and a basket of winter pansies adding a welcome splash of colour to the doorstep. A Toyota Yaris occupied most of the small driveway, and the flickering of a television in the front room confirmed someone was home. Rosie used the knocker to rap on the door and readied her ID as a figure appeared in the hallway. The door opened on the security chain. The street might have been spick and span, but South Curzon was less than a hundred yards away.

“Mrs. Mansoor?” Rosie said.

“Yes, I’m Melissa Mansoor. Can I help you?” On recognising Rosie’s uniform, the woman opened the door wider. She was in her early forties and dressed in a traditional salwar kameez, with her blond hair tucked beneath a colour-coordinated hijab. She dried her hands on a tea towel, but soap suds still clung to her forearms.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Rosie said. “I’m PC Jones, and I’m based at Clayton. We’re investigating the Kyle Parker case. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it on the news?”

Melissa nodded, her eyes flitting to the street, where curtains were beginning to twitch. “We saw it. Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” Rosie followed her into a rear living room that was evidently used for guests. Small dishes of sweets and mints were laid out on a polished black glass coffee table, and the two long sofas were in pristine condition, as if bought for show, not actual sitting. She balanced on the edge of one, trying not to leave an indentation, and took out her notepad and pen.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Melissa asked.

“No, thank you.”

Melissa remained standing, forcing Rosie to look up at her. “So, this boy’s death. What does it have to do with my family?”