Donna Cook was staring blankly at the black-and-white image of a car wreck, which urged her not to drink and drive. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, but she had washed her face. There was even a hint of pale pink lipstick, and a black beret covered the bald patches on her scalp. Her white-and-black striped top and jeans were fresh on that morning. She was trying to pull herself together for Matthew’s sake, Sam guessed. Tucking her top lip under her teeth, she looked as if she was doing her best not to cry. WPC Sam Jones pressed the button beside the desk sergeant and opened the door.

‘Oh God!’ Donna cried rushing over to her. She threw her arm around the officer’s neck and just hung there. An irrational sense of guilt slowed Sam’s reaction, but eventually she patted Donna on the back. Donna seemed so much more emotional than yesterday–perhaps what she had seen in the flat while they watched the news had been too controlled, but it had also been easier to deal with. Sam assumed that the true horror of what was happening had hit her through the long hours since they had last met. It wasn’t unusual for victims’ families to form an attachment with one officer in particular, and Sam knew that, as a woman, it was even more likely to happen with her.

‘Oh God,’ Donna said again, ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here, but I needed to get away from the estate and I needed to see you.’ She stepped back. ‘I hope you don’t mind me just turning up.’ She held Sam’s eyes. Sam looked at her. She saw her absolute grief and knew that she couldn’t turn away–or put up barriers.

‘No, of course not, Donna, come in, I’ll find a place we can talk in private,’ said Sam. She turned and led the grieving mother through a maze of hallways to an empty interview room. It was a small, intimate space. Sam pointed to an uncomfortable grey plastic chair. ‘Take a seat,’ she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Can I get you anything–tea, coffee, water?’