Jo didn’t register it to start with. Ethan had been up most of the night with a summer cold, his nose blocked, his eyes streaming, and she and Ira had taken it in turns to go through to their son. She’d done the last run, just before 3 a.m., and when she’d returned to bed, she’d struggled to fall asleep again. It was just so hot in the house, so hot everywhere in the city right now, and neither the ceiling fan in their room nor the pedestal fan they’d brought in from the garage seemed to make any difference at all. If anything, as she’d lain there staring into the darkness, they’d made everything worse, recirculating hot air and masking all the sounds beyond the house: the traffic, their neighbours, doors closing, approaching footsteps. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have mattered, but these weren’t ordinary times.

People wanted to be able to hear everything now.

Every creak; every whisper.

She hauled herself up, trying to work out how much sleep she’d had. Ten until ten fifty, one to two thirty, and four until almost five.

Just over three hours.

‘Urgh,’ she said softly, and started rolling the stiffness out of her neck. Next to her, Ira moved, the sheet twisted around him, and when he moved again she felt his hand brush against the small of her back. Taking his fingers in hers, she scooped up the pager and checked the number. It was the night-shift supervisor.

‘What time is it?’ Ira whispered, his voice dulled by the pillow.

‘Way too early.’

She leaned over, kissed Ira on the cheek and went through to the phone in the living room. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: she was only thirty-four but this morning she looked about ten years older, her eyes puffy and tired, her skin pale, her black hair escaping its braid and plastered to her face where she’d sweated during the night. Well, you look like shit, she thought, and – thanks to three hours’ sleep – she felt like it too. Ignoring her dishevelled image, she dialled the night supervisor. He picked up after two rings.

‘Rise and shine, Kader.’

‘Urgh,’ she said again.

‘I got something for you.’

‘Is it a pay rise?’

‘Funny. You got a pen?’

‘Yeah.’ She grabbed one off the table. ‘Shoot.’

‘Ten-oh-five La Cienega. A motel called the Star Inn.’

She wrote it on the back of her hand.

‘And what am I going to find there?’ Jo asked.

‘A body in a bathtub.’