Her thoughts went back to the day it happened. It was a movie that ran in her mind, as if on a constant loop. She wasn’t there—that was a big part of the problem—but she could picture Melissa outside the school gates, her golden curls, little blue dress with the flowers on it, the other kids milling around, vigilant teachers nearby, then Melissa seeing what she thought was her father’s car pulling to a stop across the road, though they always picked her up on her side. Then she pictured Melissa waving, smiling, and, before anyone could stop her, running right out in front of the speeding lorry.

Before getting into bed, she took Melissa’s dress, the same dress she had died in, from her bedside drawer, lay down, held it to her face and cried herself to sleep.

Chapter 10

As Annie waited outside ACC McLaughlin’s office at county headquarters the following morning, having been “summoned,” she felt the same way she had when her geography teacher sent her to the headmaster’s office for defacing a school atlas with her own cartographic designs: fantastic sea creatures and warnings that “Beyond this point be monsters.”

She had little fear of authority, and a person’s rank or status was something she rarely considered in her daily dealings, but somehow this summons made her nervous. Not “Red Ron” himself—he was known to be stern but fair and had a reputation for standing behind his team—but the situation she might find herself in.

It seemed that since she had decided to pursue her career again, she had made nothing but mistakes. First, sliding arse over tit down the side of Harkside reservoir in full view of several of her colleagues, and against the orders of the officer in charge; then the debacle of her excessive force investigation of probationary PC Janet Taylor during her brief (but not brief enough) spell with Complaints and Discipline; and now being blamed for the murder of Luke Armitage. Pretty soon everyone would be calling her Fuck-Up Annie, if they didn’t already. “Got a case you want fucking up, mate? Give it to Annie Cabbot, she’ll see you right.”

So much for a revitalized career. At least she was determined to go down with her middle finger high in the air.

It wasn’t bloody fair, though, Annie thought, as she paced. She was a damn good detective. Everything she had done in all those instances had been right; it was just the spin, the way it all added up, that made her look bad.

Red Ron’s secretary opened the door and ushered Annie into the presence. As befitted his rank, ACC McLaughlin had an even bigger office than Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe’s, and a carpet with much thicker pile. At least he didn’t have the books that intimidated her so in Gristhorpe’s office.

Red Ron had done a few things to personalize it since he first came to the job about eight months ago: a framed photo of his wife Carol stood on the desk, and a print of Constable’s The Lock hung on the wall. The glass cabinet was full of trophies and photos of Red Ron with various police athletics teams, from rowing to archery. He looked fit and was rumored to be in training for a marathon. He was also rumored to keep a bottle of fine single malt in his bottom drawer, but Annie didn’t expect to see much evidence of that.