“Never better, Andy,” she managed through her teeth. They were chattering. She remembered something. She put the shotgun’s safety catch back on, then laid the gun in the footwell before clambering back inside the X5. A hand caught at her jacket, but she shook it off.

Ellie fumbled in her pocket for an evidence bag, Several of the glassine envelopes fell out at once as she removed one. Should really have gloves for this, latex ones on both hands instead of a police uniform glove on one – the other having been removed when she’d been stripping the cover from that first flare. But fuck it. She had no idea what was taking place, but one thing she felt entitled to state as an absolute fact was that this was most definitely not a normal night on duty.

The scrap of pale material was still there, hanging from the gap between the passenger door and the jamb. She took hold of it between her gloved finger and thumb – she didn’t want to touch it with her bare hand – and opened the door in order to lift it free. She was starting to shake now: delayed reaction, shock. As if the day’s fun and games at Barrowman hadn’t been enough.

She slid back out, swaying and wobbling, then sat down on the memorial steps. Plant-Pot stood over her, gawping down. Other familiar faces: Pastor Matt, the Robinsons, Chris Brailsford. Noel pushed through the crowd. “Ellie?”

“Gimme a minute,” she said. “Evidence.” The hardest part was getting the glassine envelope open. “Fuck.”

Noel crouched beside her. “Let me,” he said, and gently took the baggie from her grasp. He opened it and held it steady as she lowered the scrap of material inside. “The hell’s that?”

“Evidence.” She fumbled the baggie into her pocket, then zipped it shut. “Don’t know what the hell it is, but they were covered in it.”

“They?”

She gestured to the car. Something red glinted in the driver’s footwell: the hammer and sickle badge on the fur hat. She fished it out, clutching it tight before it could slip from her shaking fingers.

“Let me through. Let me through.” Thelma Graham pushed her way out of the crowd. “What in God’s name have you done to my car?”

Sod my husband, what have you done to my car? Ellie couldn’t hold in a burst of weak, hysterical laughter, which only served to outrage Thelma further still. “Are you drunk?” she demanded. “She’s drunk! I saw her before in the pub, drinking away.”

“Leave it, Thelma,” said Noel.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d like me to be quiet – you and all her friends, you’ll all rally round, won’t you? I know what you thought of Tom, how you ganged up on him behind his back –” Thelma broke off, finally remembering her spouse. “And where is he? Ellie Cheetham, where is my bloody husband?”