‘The Home Office, sir? It really doesn’t matter what they think, though, does it? I’m trying to get to the bottom of a very complicated set of circumstances. My final report will follow in due course. If there’s been a crime committed then I’ll take the necessary action, sir.’

‘Do we need all the detritus, though? We need this wrapped up, and quickly; the government is taking a hammering over the scandal. Can you play down the link between Lord Reilly and Kennedy-Craig? Is it really relevant?’

Kelly stirred her coffee vociferously. ‘You mean lie, sir?’

‘Porter…’

‘Sorry, sir. What I meant was omit, sir.’ She enunciated her words to match her vigorous stirring and found her grasp of the spoon was making it dig into her palm. ‘I’m aware of the political pressure, but I can only give you the truth as I find it. If you want me to leave gaps because the government deems some information irrelevant, then why don’t I ping you over my report as soon as I wrap up, and you can edit it yourself?’

‘Hmmm. Porter, there’s no need for that tone, I simply want you to consider how many resources we can plough into this thing before it becomes a media circus and nothing else.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing, sir. With respect, I need to go to an interview.’

‘Hmmm.’

They hung up.

Kelly sipped her coffee and leant against the countertop. She was seething. She tried her best to concentrate on what she had to do.

Before turning to a life of intimidating and beating vulnerable women, Edderbridge had led an unsurprising existence right here in Penrith, attending local schools and bombing his GCSEs. Stints in mechanics’ workshops and garages preceded pretty minor criminality and thus began a career of latching onto women to pay his rent and feed him, while he roamed around looking for houses to rob.

She walked past Rob’s chair and peered over his shoulder at his work.

‘Boss?’ he said.

‘How’re you doing?’ she asked, more about his sleeping arrangements than the case.

‘Making progress. I’ve identified a few characters that have been on the end of, how shall I put it, unfair deals on behalf of Tactika and might have an axe to grind. I also found this; it’s a charitable foundation, one of many set up by Tactika to essentially hide money. It was set up with a million quid, and ostensibly it does decent work, putting kids from unprivileged backgrounds through college – one of whom is Quentin St John, the editor of a respected broadsheet. The same paper that ran the article about Tactika yesterday.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a man called Quentin would need help with his education,’ she said.

‘Exactly, so I did a bit of digging. That’s his new name; before that he was plain old Paul Stockton.’