Ormond told her that he was going to come down hard on those responsible for Ella Watson’s murder, but Kelly didn’t think for a second that he should be anywhere near the investigation. He made it clear that he wanted the case to be high profile. Honourable middle-class white lady gets whacked, and HQ want an abrupt end to knife crime. It would look good on all sides. The whole tone of the email sat uncomfortably with her, and she decided to confront him face to face.

Chapter 6

Kelly drove to the constabulary headquarters on the perimeter of Penrith. If Superintendent Ormond was putting his head above the parapet and admitting this was a personal matter, then for one, he shouldn’t have direct executive power over the case; and two, he could give her an interview about his friends the Watsons.

She’d been many times before to the dated stone and glass building languishing peacefully behind trees, away from the harsh day-to-day working of case files. She appreciated that this was where the brains were. The top brass, who’d spent their lives on the force, shaping policy, doing their best, diving for cover from the yo-yo dizziness of consecutive governments barking their U-turns. It wasn’t for her. She had an inkling that the Ella Watson case was about to turn into a circus, and she needed advice.

She parked her car and signed in at the reception desk. She was given a new pass to wear as well as her Eden House one and shown through a labyrinth of offices. Finally she was left at a door and informed that she was to knock and go in: Superintendent Ormond was expecting her. She did so, and his voice boomed from within.

Neil Ormond was an old-fashioned copper: as big as a house, steely-eyed, and welcoming as a teddy bear. He beamed at her, but also looked at his watch: it was gone 7 p.m.

‘DI Porter, you’ve been making quite a name for yourself.’

‘In a good way, I hope, sir.’

‘Indeed, very.’

‘Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.’

‘Of course you are, and damn fine at it you are. Well done. Promotion on the cards, I’m sure.’

‘I’d rather stay operational, sir.’

‘I bet you would. Bloody good at it. You’ve got the nose, Porter. What can I do for you? Is this about Ella Watson?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sit down. Coffee?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

He buzzed a junior, no doubt sitting close by to keep his cup topped up all day. She’d bet her life it was a woman: some habits never fully died out. Sure enough, a woman in uniform scuttled in with a tray and placed it between them on the desk. Ormond didn’t acknowledge it, and she left.

‘Sir, I appreciated the candour in your email, and I’d like to go over a few things if I may?’