She had to be hiding behind one of the stacks. Patrick gestured for Carmella to go down the left hand side of the row, while he took the right. His heart was thumping fast with excitement.

He crept along the row of pallets, Carmella doing the same on the other side. He could feel the sun burning the top of his head.

There was no sign of their quarry.

‘Where the fuck is she?’

Carmella was about to reply when Patrick saw her. She was crouched behind a forklift truck at the far end of the yard, her blue cap just visible.

‘Looks like we’ve lost her,’ he said loudly, walking slowly towards the forklift, keeping his eyes averted. Then as he drew level with the truck, he shot off to the left, Denise popping up and starting to run, but he had the momentum – and grabbed hold of the back of her factory smock as she made a half-hearted attempt to get away.

‘Get off me!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll have you for assault.’

Patrick rolled his eyes. ‘Come on Denise. Why were you running? Something to hide?’

She narrowed her eyes at him and spat, ‘What am I supposed to have done, eh?’

‘We can talk about that back at the station.’

‘I ain’t done nothing.’

‘Denise, we just want to ask you some questions,’ Carmella said in a soothing tone.

Denise flicked her eyes up and down Carmella’s body. ‘Don’t call me Denise. It’s Miss Breem to you. What’s this about? Caspar’s been dead for seven years. Thanks to you lot.’

Patrick leaned in. ‘Whatever happened to Doyle, he did to himself.’

Denise folded her arms, perhaps not realizing how ludicrous she looked, trying to act hard in her factory smock and hat. ‘Whatever. I ain’t done nothing.’

‘So you said. But you can tell us more about this nothing at the station, Miss Breem.’

Two hours later, Patrick stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door behind him. He went straight to the incident room, shoulder-barging the door, taking off his jacket and flinging it across the room. He picked up an empty coffee cup and chucked it against the wall, then kicked it as hard as he could.

He punched the wall.

‘Fuck!’ He yelled out with pain and frustration and fury. He whirled round and saw the three children staring at him from the wall, talking to him with their big, beautiful eyes. Frankie’s in particular seemed to be calling to him.

Help. I’m scared.

He was letting them all down. All of them, and their families. The whole community, the people he was meant to serve, meant to protect. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to the pictures on the wall. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The door opened and Suzanne came in, eyes wide.