She’d experienced the same reticence before, in London, during her Met days. Sprawling housing estates, as tall as they were wide, all stifled by some silent code. It was almost impossible to find a snitch, and then to be sure they were a reliable one. It wasn’t a good start. She understood that door-to-door information-gathering had already begun in Wordsworth Towers, the building where Keira lived. A log was being compiled of all the properties and who lived there.

One of the uniforms pointed out the woman who’d ID’d Keira. As Kelly walked towards her, the woman looked nervous.

‘You live around here?’ Kelly asked. The woman nodded. ‘What number?’

The woman pointed. ‘Up there, number forty-eight.’

‘So, near to Keira then. How well did you know her?’

‘Kind of, not really.’

‘Did she have a job?’

The woman laughed. ‘Nah.’

So no explanation for the five hundred quid.

‘Do you know how old she was? Family? Boyfriend?’

The woman looked even more fidgety.

‘She had a boyfriend? Name?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Rumours?’

‘Maybe.’

‘We can do this the easy way and have a cosy chat, or I can take you in under caution as a material witness. You ID’d her; that makes you my closest associate at the moment.’

‘Fuck off, man! You not taking me nowhere.’ The woman backed away, but pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘Have a look on Instagram. You’ll find everything you need right there.’ She showed Kelly the screen and she made a note of Keira’s Instagram account.

‘I need to go.’ The woman looked around, scared now. Two uniforms stood close by and she knew she had no choice but to cooperate. That didn’t necessarily mean telling the truth.

‘Did you hear anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you know anyone who heard something?’

‘Nope.’

‘Did Keira live alone?’

‘No, her mam is ill, on disability allowance. She looked after her.’

‘In the same flat?’

‘Obviously, man. Jeez, you stupid?’

Kelly ignored the bravado. She turned away and spoke to a uniform. ‘Has anyone been inside Keira’s flat yet?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘To inform her sick mother of her daughter’s death?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Jesus.’ She called Eden House to see if an informing officer was available. If not, she’d have to do it herself. The answer was negative. She grabbed a uniform to accompany her.

The stairwells were shabby and stank of piss. The doors to the flats were, by and large, dated and unloved. They came to number 32 and knocked. They knocked a second time, and eventually the door was opened. The woman could have been forty-five or eighty-five. She was ravaged by neglect and a poor lifestyle. A waft of stale air accompanied her and she looked puzzled to have visitors. She used a walking cane.

‘I’m not buying nothing,’ she said. Then she saw the uniform. ‘What do you want?’