No one answered Mac. A couple of chair legs scraped across the floor as one or two officers shifted. Others gazed at their hands or pretended to take notes.

The slap of Mac’s palm against the table made the room jump.

“He.” Slap. “Was.” Slap. “One.” Slap. “Of.” Slap. “Us.”

Detective Constable Bernie French’s braying voice broke into the silence. Wildeve gritted her teeth again, and this time it wasn’t because of the pain.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, guv, I think we need to go back to the beginning and Natalie Tiernan.” His chest puffed out at having the floor. “The Doll Maker—”

“Don’t call him that.” Mac’s terseness cut through French’s self-importance. “And that goes for the rest of you, too.”

He didn’t bother to explain why. But Wildeve knew. Mac hated these monikers. Thought it glamorized the killings and legitimized the act of murder. But that wasn’t the only reason. He had told her once that it made his officers lazy and narrowed their thinking, that—subconsciously or otherwise—it pointed the investigation toward assumption rather than fact.

French snorted and looked around colleagues new and old for support. “I think it’s rather good, actually. Bit more imaginative than the usual bullshit.”

Mac’s smile was overwarm, full-blown. French clocked the DCI’s expression and a self-congratulatory laugh slipped from him. But he had misread the signals.

“Here’s what will be more imaginative than the usual bullshit if you don’t shut up,” said Mac, still smiling. “Your fucking CV. Because you’ll be trying to cover up why you got sacked.”

Mac leaned toward the detective constable. “Here’s a tip. When I say, Jump, you say, How high—and shall I make you a brew while I’m up there? And have some fucking respect. Adam’s wife’s here. Got it?”

French moistened his lips with his slug of a tongue. He stretched out his arms and locked his hands behind his head, all elbows and arrogance. He opened his mouth to argue, but Mac was staring him down, head cocked, still grinning.

French dropped his gaze. “Got it.”

Mac raised one eyebrow. “Got it, what?”

If looks could kill, her boss would be dead. “Got it, guv.”

The rest of the briefing passed without incident with tasks assigned, leads to investigate and interviews to conduct, but their exchange had left a nasty taste behind. During major investigations, it was not unusual for different teams to join forces and operate as one, but conflict was common. Different methods of working. Egos. Clashing personalities.

“Wildeve, have you got a minute?”

She put down the bin. Mac had not allocated her a specific job. She’d been taking a closer look at Victim Two—Esther Farnworth—when Adam was killed, but Mac had probably written her off.