The ANPR system had picked it up a little after two in the afternoon, careering out of the car park at Bradfield Central station. By the time they’d alerted BMP, it had traversed the city centre, heading out past the university towards Stradbrook Tower. Control had scrambled the nearest Traffic car, which had arrived in time to see two lads, heads covered by hoodies, jump out of the car and toss lighted petrol bombs inside as they fled.

Flames filled the car, and before the traffic cops could even release their small fire extinguisher from its clips, it exploded with a low boom. It was such a regular occurrence that nobody so much as ventured out on to their balconies to watch.

‘There goes our trace evidence,’ Fielding said. ‘Wee fuds.’

‘But not at Tony Hill’s hand,’ Paula pointed out.

‘We don’t know that.’ Fielding scowled. ‘We don’t know what he told Carol Jordan to set in motion.’

Paula fought to hide her scorn. ‘Carol would never destroy evidence,’ she said. ‘That would be a betrayal of everything she believes in.’

‘Isn’t that what working with Bronwen Scott is? You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.’ Fielding turned on her heel and walked over to the sheepish traffic cops. ‘Find out who those wee thugs were,’ she said. ‘I want to know how they knew to steal that car.’

Carol still wasn’t accustomed to wearing a visitor’s pass in a police station. It felt wrong to sign in when she arrived at Skenfrith Street, to have to wait till someone came to escort her past the front counter, to be confined to the places where she was led. At least she’d had the good sense to phone Bronwen Scott’s office and have them pave the way for her solo prisoner visit. It had, she suspected, saved her a degree of humiliation.

While she was waiting in the tiny airless room they’d been in the previous night, Carol powered up her laptop and opened the details of the women in the death notices. She took out the photocopies of the news stories and set them down beside the laptop. Then she softly drummed the pads of her fingers on the blank metal flanking the mousepad. Realising what she was doing she stopped abruptly, cross with herself. There was no need, no reason, no point in nervousness. Whatever their history, there was no future for her and Tony. She was doing this simply to save Paula from being caught up in a career-wrecking miscarriage of justice. This wasn’t about Tony. Businesslike efficiency, that was what she needed now. Not twitching like a teenager.