As Harper and Thrupp buzzed across town, down into the valley to quell disaster and keep the peace, the computer in Harper’s office blinked and went to sleep. The email from Records containing Lauren’s 999 call shuffled unnoticed into the “read” section of her inbox, pressed down by the weight of the unread, soon to be consigned to the oblivion of Page Two.

CHAPTER NINE

The man lay half on the pavement, limbs twisted, head smashed. Blood pooled darkly, forming tendrils that crawled towards a drain. Harper started walking towards the body but was stopped by a uniformed officer.

“Sorry, Jo. We need to wait for bomb disposal to finish.”

The jacket the dead man wore was made of black nylon, and clung to what was left of him like a second skin. However, procedures were important. It was a further fifteen minutes before the bomb squad could safely confirm what could be plainly seen: there was no explosive device in the man’s jacket. There never had been. At the all-clear she stepped forward to close the staring eyes, then helped to cover the body before it was bagged and transported to the morgue.

* * *

The first journalist on the scene was also a friend, Amy Larsen, veteran of a great many of Harper’s crime scenes over the last three years and chief reporter for the big local weekly, the Sheffield Mail. Amy, who as usual was fully made up, chic and elegant in a pencil skirt and heels, held her recording device in front of Harper’s mouth. The sergeant frowned at it and tried to move away but Amy followed her.

“Tell me about the kid. What brought him to this?”

Harper said, “We don’t know much about him at the moment. He’s young, probably in his early twenties. That’s all we’ve got.”

“A tragic suicide? Nothing more ominous than that?” Her ironic tone implied she didn’t believe that line for a second.

“We’re investigating the circumstances, the identity of the victim and so on. But at this moment we don’t think there’s anyone else involved.”

“So why did the police decide to bring in the armed response team?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

Amy rolled her eyes and huffed. “What can you tell me?”

“Only that we are treating the death as unexplained, but not suspicious.”

Harper would have said more, but she was trained to minimise potentially inflammatory lines of questioning when dealing with the press. She was supposed only to release the very blandest of information. Amy knew this. It was a game they played: a gentle volley of questions and responses, the journalist trying for the topspin, the police officer stoically returning straight lobs.

“Come on, Harper. This wasn’t just a suicide, was it? The police don’t behave like that, shutting the roads, evacuating buildings—not for a jumper. I’m sure I saw a bomb-disposal unit. Did you think he had a bomb?”

Harper put her hand over the top of the recording device. “I can’t tell you anything more about the incident. We don’t even know his name yet. I’m sorry.”