On Friday morning, Thomas Watson and his two children arrived at Eden House for a press conference. When they entered the building, the place fell silent and they were greeted by a sea of sympathetic faces. From uniforms on the front desk to civilian workers sitting at computers, the caretakers emptying waste bins and, through the back, into the room that was used for press conferences such as this, the detectives setting up the tables: everyone felt their pain.

All coppers knew what grief did to a human face: it sank it deep within itself, leaving cavernous shadows etched around the eyes through lack of sleep. Rest was a thing of the past for this family: they spent their waking moments – when not collapsed for an hour here and there through sheer exhaustion – running their reality through the cogs of their inner brains, trying to figure out why… why… why. On and on it whirred, relentless. If only Mum had decided to run along the lake that day instead, if only Millie had been off school ill and she’d stayed home to care for her, if only Thomas had decided to open a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the cellar the night before and she’d decided to skip her run with a hangover. If only.

Getting out of the house, away from the home created by the woman they all loved, had brought a slight diversion to the threesome; they could distract their minds with stuff not of her making: street lamps, dogs being walked, the sky, traffic lights, the noise of cars and so forth. Within the walls of Eden House, however, the enormity of their loss confronted them once more, violently and shamelessly. Millie held onto her father’s arm; Jordan walked solemnly behind, not daring to make eye contact lest he should crumble into a sobbing mess in front of all of these police officers.

It was bad enough that they had to face the press. But they all agreed they had no choice. Of course it had to be done. Dad had decided to offer a cash reward too. Some cowardly bastards out there knew something, and money made people talk. Dad had explained that the police officer in charge was a woman called Kelly Porter and that she was nice. Jordan asked what had happened to the man called Neil who’d visited the house, and he’d been told that Neil was far more senior than a mere detective and was overseeing the whole investigation. They knew about the other murder the following morning, but they hadn’t been told if the two were connected. Jordan felt slightly better that a high-ranking police officer was involved.