Sleeping in makeshift shelters, uncomfortable and cold, most of the overnight dwellers in the growing camp on the Beacon Estate woke early. Dogs milled round looking for food, and stoves were lit ready for tea and coffee. Most of the media people had booked into hotels overnight. The attention that the demonstrations had attracted had prompted editors to sign off budgets for a longer stay: something was brewing and every editor in the country knew it. The powers-that-be could not let this disruption continue indefinitely. It had to come to an end, peacefully or otherwise. Some of the big names in news had begun to arrive the previous evening. They could smell trouble.

Sharon Bradley was the mouthpiece for the movement. Any questions were directed to her, and she made decisions on everything from banner slogans to what to say to the press. What had started out as justice for Keira had become something much bigger and now that Thomas Watson had offered two hundred thousand pounds for information about both murders, it had attracted more attention. Momentum was growing and Sharon walked around like a site manager, checking on volunteers and asking for updates on information given to the police. She had seen for herself the difference between the coppers working for Kelly Porter and the ones who’d acted like twats on Thursday afternoon. Sure, they’d made some arrests and taken some bad boys into custody – some of them had even been charged – but it was Sharon’s work with the community that was getting answers.

‘You not tired, Shaz?’

‘Nah, this is the only thing I wanna do.’ It was true: the protests and gatherings had given her a purpose. It was only a matter of time before someone cracked. The Cotton brothers hadn’t been seen anywhere on the estate since the release of their photos. Someone must know where they were. DI Porter was on her way here to hear the updates for herself. She was all right, that one, Sharon thought. She could talk to her without feeling as though she was talking to a copper who’d already made up their mind about the victim.

Sharon believed Kelly when she said she was working on both killings equally. She wasn’t stupid; she knew that the Watson woman had been rich, beautiful and respectable, while Keira’s life had been small and difficult. But they’d both loved, laughed, eaten and slept the same, no matter what anyone said. Millie Watson understood, and that was why she’d turned up here late last night, wanting to meet Sharon.