‘It’s me and you, son,’ he said.

Jordan took his father’s outstretched hand and shook it, nodding his allegiance. He saw Kelly glance at him and he read her face: she was impressed with him and he knew he could go through with it. He’d begun burying his feelings the moment he’d been given the news. Now, he could burn himself on the kettle or pull a muscle in their home gym lifting ludicrously heavy weights and not feel it until after. There was a reason: he had a purpose.

‘There are around twenty journalists waiting in the next room,’ Kelly said. ‘I’m going to brief them, then I’ll take Millie away through that door and the press will file in. When you’re ready, you can read your prepared statement. Will is in charge; he’ll guide you through and make sure everybody knows you’re not taking questions at this time. That’s still your decision?’

Thomas looked at Jordan and they both nodded agreement. It had been Thomas’s decision. They wanted to get the attention of the public, especially those living on the Beacon Estate, and they agreed that a powerful appeal was all that was required. The public would have their own questions and would ponder them, rather than turn it into a circus. The news about the trouble on the estate last night was making headlines and the residents must be getting sick and tired of the negative attention; this might be their opportunity to raise awareness of the conditions in which they lived. Jordan wasn’t stupid. He knew he was privileged. He knew how money dictated your path in life, more than any other single factor. His father was a wealthy man; that was why he was offering £100,000 in cash for information leading to any arrests.

Dad’s friend Neil had told them that their mum’s murder had become national news because of the brazen nature of the attack, and the fact that no one was safe any more. Random knife violence was no longer the preserve of gangs in inner cities; it had spilled into the suburbs and a middle-class mother of two was dead. The arbitrary nature of the crime had chilled middle England and, sadly, Keira Bradley’s murder had become a sideline. Jordan didn’t much care about the details of the other woman who’d been stabbed to death; his mind was on one thing only. She did have a use, though. Jordan had already suggested to his father that he arrange to meet Sharon Bradley. He’d followed the news on TV and watched as Sharon Bradley mobilised hundreds of people. It was inspiring and Jordan had felt something stir inside him: Sharon Bradley was doing something. He’d watched the footage of the barricades being constructed, and the desire of people from all over to join in.