‘I can see that.’

‘Hannah also saw it as an opportunity for Callie’s case.’

‘Go on?’

‘She said she could come at it from a different angle. She talked to her new skipper about the job. He told her how they have sources that have given information about sex offenders before. Apparently it’s the only information people will share for free, especially if you’re talking about kid victims. Her skipper found someone who might be able to help so Hannah put herself forward to meet with them as soon as possible.’

‘Do we know who?’

‘No. She didn’t tell me that. But it was blocked anyway. All handler meetings are run through a controller – a senior officer basically who has to authorise every meeting – and they wouldn’t authorise this one. Hannah had only been on the team a couple of weeks and didn’t have an existing relationship with this informant and it failed the risk assessment. Someone else on the team was going to be tasked with it, but it wouldn’t be any time soon. Hannah said that the whole team were wrapped up in some big drugs job. She was frustrated.’

‘So you think she did something off her own back?’

‘I don’t know that for sure, but I’ve never seen her so consumed … That was the last time I saw her.’

‘So that could explain why she was at an informant’s house, why she was on her own.’

‘It could.’

‘And now the source team have shut up shop because one of their officers stepped out of their processes and got herself killed.’

‘She didn’t get herself killed. Someone shackled her to that bed and shot her twice,’ DS Rose said.

‘You’re right, poor turn of phrase. We need to speak to the source team,’ Joel said, ‘more than ever.’

‘We’re getting nothing.’

Joel lit up his phone but changed his mind. ‘First thing in the morning I’ll speak to our superintendent again and see what she can do. We need to be a lot more difficult to ignore.’

Chapter 35

Monday

The graveyard at Lympne Church was never more beautiful than when it was in the throes of spring. The last twenty-four hours had felt like the flick of a switch to Richard – the signs of a harsh and barren winter nearing its end had suddenly arrived. The hedgerow that chased the perimeter of the church grounds had looked like it was drawn from charcoal in the bleakness of winter but it was now littered with shoots. Colour was emerging, too, on the taller trees; their thick roots might have been some way down in the steep valley but the thickening branches were peeking above the low stone wall. Directly behind the headstone of Angela Maddox, a cherry blossom tree had also started to wake and would soon dazzle as a bright pink backdrop. The blossom only lasted a week – less if there was a strong wind – but when it did shed its colour it only served to sprinkle petals like the most beautiful confetti over his wife’s resting place. Last year the petals had started falling almost immediately after Angela had been laid to rest, like the gardens were welcoming her with colour – a ticker-tape parade for a returning hero. Angela was from Lympne originally, and one of her ancestors had even been the presiding vicar at this very church – that was how he had been able to bury her here. She had been a regular at their local church but Richard had taken real comfort from the fact that her long sleep would be among old friends and family.