Their arrival at the wire mesh enclosure was met by a cacophony of barking. Dozens of dogs leaped up towards the gates of their enclosures hoping, with the optimism that all dogs have in abundance, that this visitor would be there to release them. Kirsty seemed excited too. She had described in detail how the dog had defended Mrs Roy’s body.

‘It was a wonderful act, but it made my job quite a bit harder,’ Kirsty said.

‘From what I heard you did all right,’ Claire responded.

The police vet, Pauline Jones, a good friend of Claire’s, was there to meet them, and led the way along a brick corridor. ‘He’s quite a character, you’ll enjoy meeting him,’ she said.

‘I got my own dog through Pauline,’ Claire confided to Kirsty. ‘An insane Irish wolfhound called Dexter. Used to belong to a drug dealer. He’s quite imposing, but as soft as butter really.’

‘There he is,’ Pauline said, pointing down the corridor. The boxer was pressing his face to the bars and barking.

‘Ooh, who’s a good boy then?’ said Pauline as she unlocked the gate. The dog whined, skittering around in the cage, constantly trying to peer around the guests, in case there was an unseen visitor behind them. ‘You’re going back to your family tomorrow, aren’t you? Yes, you are.’

‘Ah, bless. He’s looking for his owner,’ Claire said. They both entered the cage and knelt down to stroke him. He accepted the treatment, his head swivelling left and right, still searching.

‘Boxers are the loyalist of all dogs,’ Kirsty said. ‘We had one when I was a little girl.’

‘Pauline,’ Claire said, ‘I understand that the swabs you took are already with forensics?’

‘Yes, there’s no way you can wait with a dog. All that saliva, and licking! But I did find some fibres, just under the corner of his nose, so maybe we’ll get somewhere with that.’

‘So he bit the attacker?’ Kirsty asked. ‘I did wonder.’

Claire tried to curb her enthusiasm. ‘He could have picked them up from anywhere, it’s unlikely to be conclusive unless some DNA has survived.’

‘We can always hope, can’t we?’ Pauline said with a smile. ‘I mean, you’ve got to hope.’

James had just finished school for the day. His year six class had struggled with the maths exercises in the last period, they had loads of homework, and now it was pissing it down. Dejectedly, he pushed his bike to the school gates, knowing he would get soaked on the three-mile ride back home. Dozens of other boys ran past him, trying to keep out of the rain. A host of parents were waiting outside in their cars, but one vehicle, a black Porsche Cayenne 4 x 4, was parked illegally on the yellow zigzags. It was well out from the kerb, and facing the wrong way. Whoever it was would get a letter from the headmaster. James knew his cars. The Cayenne was very fast and very expensive. He wished his mother had one of those instead of her usual crappy old Toyota. She was usually too busy to come and collect him anyway. Even in the rain. She had a career, that’s how she explained it to him. A career in curry, running a shitty old factory in Slough.