‘Ranksy!’ she said, somewhere between a guffaw and a shriek of exasperation. ‘I’ve bloody seen you with him. I drove past, I honked my friggin’ horn. Batley town centre, behind the BetFred’s? You were standing there, leaning into his Beemer, giving him the whole finger-wagging bit!’

The younger man’s blank expression never slipped.

‘Skinny kid?’

‘That’ll be the one!’

Ranksy shrugged. ‘We had a little chat, yeah.’

‘So now,’ she continued, ‘you’re, like, even more of a suspect in a murder investigation! Come on, fellas. We don’t think you did it. Just help us out a bit, eh? No one’s dragging you down the nick, are they?’

We don’t think you did it. Joe logged that one for further discussion. Rita certainly liked to jump in and get her side of things across. Not his style.

‘Mr Cullen,’ he continued, ‘can you tell us what your daughter said today?’

Cullen nodded. ‘Nothing much. She told us what had happened.’

‘Time?’

‘Around four-thirty.’

‘What was her frame of mind?’

‘She was distressed, obviously. I told her to stay here for the night, longer, if she wanted. But she wouldn’t. She left a bit later.’

‘Has there been any tension between you? I mean, about her boyfriend?’

Cullen took a deep breath and opened his arms.

‘Yes, officer, there has. We are against everything Craig Shaw was doing. Let’s get that straight. But she’s our daughter. We stand by her. Now and forever.’

‘Family first,’ Daz whispered, to no one in particular. Everyone ignored him.

‘You stand by her? Degree in Media and Communications, isn’t it?’

Cullen nodded with pride.

‘Tuition fees? Accommodation? Living expenses? Would there be receipts for any of that?’

Joe counted to five while Cullen failed to answer. Then:

‘Tuesday evening? Where were you all? Let’s start with you, Mr Cullen.’

‘You don’t need to start with me. We were together, at Cleckheaton Library, the three of us.’

‘At the Lobster Pot?’

Cullen was now trying to conceal a frown, and not making a good job of it.

‘Yes. Modern society. A fresh view. A discussion group. And if there’s anything else we can help you with, Sergeant, I can let our solicitor know.’

‘Danny, you’re shitting me,’ said Rita. ‘We’re having a word, is all!’

Cullen straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘I’m just being careful. Right-wing extremists, that’s what they call us. Anyone who even dares to raise these issues is a racist. Have you seen the rings they ran around Tommy Robinson? You’re surprised we want a lawyer here?’

Joe and Rita looked at each other. It was time to go. But Cullen wasn’t done.

‘Racists. Vigilantes. Extremists. That’s the press we get. And why is that?’