‘You’ve had a busy day, Ms Groves. And a difficult week.’ Bowman seems to hesitate. ‘Constable Frost tells me you’re under a lot of pressure, and with what happened to your colleague, well,’ he holds up his hands, ‘you really should get some rest. We can talk in the morning. I’m sure I can work with your deadline if required.’

His tone is patronising, but when she meets his gaze she only sees concern. Has Rusty told him about her visit to Bouris? She crosses her arms to try to keep warm. ‘I want everything you have,’ she says, forcing herself to look him straight in the eye. ‘Everything.’ Oli catches Rusty staring at them from the kitchen window. ‘And you should know, I’m not scared to run a story on how you failed to draw a link between the cases ten years ago.’

A white puff of air bursts from Bowman’s mouth. ‘No point standing around in the cold, then. I’d best get to it.’ He turns on his heel and stalks back into the house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: TUESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2015

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

TUESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2015

OLI DRIVES STRAIGHT TO THE OFFICE. BOTH HER HUNGER AND exhaustion have vanished, no match for the fiery charge of a story. The streets are almost empty, giving the world a strange apocalyptic feel. Nineties hits play on the radio, the graveyard shift DJ recounting stories from his youth in between songs. Oli taps her fingers along to Green Day, Nirvana, No Doubt.

At the office she pauses briefly at the news desk to speak to Kay, a plump redhead who has been working nights for over a decade. Oli tells her she will file copy for editorial to review by 8 am. Suggests she get the legal team on standby. Without a word, Kay plonks her romance novel on the desk, moves her hands to her keyboard and starts to type.

As Oli takes the stairs to the studio, she fishes out the keys Cooper gave her. She flicks on the light and blinks as her pupils adjust. Cooper’s juice is still on the table alongside his pens and notebook. She ignores it all and sits facing the door, opens her laptop. Flexes her fingers.

Oli writes hard and fast, her typing like gunfire. Her eyes sting and her back aches, but she doesn’t stop until she’s done. She re-reads the piece, replacing some words here and there, then emails it to Kay. Slumping back in her seat, she feels stunned; blood pounds through her head as if she’s been running, and her arms and legs are floppy and weak.