The car park at the Fresh Ground Cafe was crammed with haphazardly parked police vehicles, stopped where they’d screeched to a halt at odd angles. On the journey from the station, the dashboard readout told Harper it was thirty-one degrees in the sun. It was marginally cooler under the trees but when she stepped out of the car, the humidity made it feel like she was breathing through a hot wet sock. The trees formed a dense tunnel to a distant bend up ahead, and beyond. This road was one she knew well, that she had driven many times—it got narrower as it curled into the peaks, and went all the way to Manchester.

The cafe stood in the full beating sun, with brown sandy grass all around. Its own shadow, a rhombus of black, lay like a carpet at its feet, and in the contrast of the glare Harper couldn’t see the interior. Behind it, a little playground, and on the path, two officers were taking statements from members of the public. There was a straggling of gawpers, attracted by the commotion and being turned back or moved along quickly, asked politely by a pair of fresh-faced PCSOs to clear the area.

Harper crossed the bridge and walked the short distance to the wooden cafe, which was little more than an upmarket shed, erected on a concrete platform above the path. She passed the separate breeze-block toilet building, watched by two huge spray-painted cartoon eyes. It felt good to be off desk duty. When the call came in, Thrupp had assigned the case to her immediately, so he can’t have lost all faith in her abilities. Mind you, it was true that he hadn’t had much choice: she’d been the only DS available.

As she got close to the cafe one of the uniformed constables turned to her and was about to speak, ask her who she was, when she flashed her warrant card and introduced herself. The officer, a squat man with close-cropped hair and a nose warped by historical breakages, said his name was PC Atkinson.

“Where’s Mrs Tranter?” she said.

“Who?”

“The mother.”

For a moment the officer seemed surprised at the question, but then he moved aside. “This way, Sarge.”

Inside the cafe there was a strong smell of ground coffee and sun-baked wood preserver. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the light.

Atkinson leaned in close. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“The name. She won’t tell us anything. She’s just been ranting.”

“Dispatch had it,” said Harper, realising that in fact, they hadn’t. No one had told her the name of the mother. But she’d known it, none the less. From the moment the first communication came into the office, blaring out of the police radio she kept on her desk.

All units, please assist, this is a code ten-ten.