A murder enquiry has been opened after the body of a young woman was discovered in a disused factory in Tyseley this morning. The woman had sustained multiple knife wounds. Her identity is yet to be established.

The area has been sealed off while forensic examinations are underway.

Detective Inspector Lara Morton from the Homicide Unit is leading the investigation. She said, ‘The investigation is in the very early stages but my team and I will do everything we can to ensure justice for this young woman.

‘I would ask anyone with information to contact us on 101 or anonymously at Crimestoppers.’

‘I’ve emailed Nuttall,’ Maggie said. ‘He’ll tell us if it’s her.’

Her? Which one? Maggie meant Becca, though, of course, not Ana. Or Tarryn, even – where was she? Why hadn’t she answered her calls?

On the table in front of them, Maggie’s mobile rang. Valerie Woodson. They looked at each other.

‘She couldn’t have seen it already? It’s just gone up.’

‘I’m surprised it’s taken her so long.’ Maggie took a fortifying breath and picked up. ‘Valerie?’

Robin heard a sob.

‘No wonder they always had you on family liaison,’ Robin said, when she hung up.

‘You mean it wasn’t just because I’m a bird?’

‘Well, that too, obviously. But you’re really good at it.’ In five or six minutes, without giving her false hope, being careful to say that they had to be prepared for it to be Becca, Maggie had managed to talk – and listen – Valerie back from the brink of hysteria. By the time she said goodbye, the voice on the other end of the line sounded almost calm.

Maggie slumped in the chair and let her head drop back. For a few seconds, she looked her age, the skin around her eyes tissue-thin, throat creased above the smooth disc of tiger’s eye on her necklace. ‘How not to start the day,’ she said. ‘Lorraine’s back from Lanzarote, she’s coming in to do the books, so I’ve been here since seven doing paperwork.’

‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘What?’ She opened her eyes.

‘Skirt.’

‘Oh. Yeah. I’ve got a meeting at Hargreaves & Partners at eleven.’ On the desk, the laptop pinged: incoming. She sat forward again and clicked in to her email. ‘Nuttall.’ She looked up. ‘It’s not Becca.’