I duck under the tape, a voice recorder practically takes my eye out and a noise like an attack dog goes off in my face. I leap before I can stop myself, fists coming up, and hear the burst of fake shutter-clicks from a phone camera.

‘Detective Conway do you have a suspect was this a serial killer was the victim sexually assaulted—’

Mostly journalists are a good thing. We all have our special relationships – you throw your guy early tipoffs, he leaks whatever you want leaked and passes you anything you should know – but even with the rest, we usually get on grand: we all know the boundaries, no one oversteps, everyone’s happy. Louis Crowley is the exception. Crowley is a little snot-drip who works for a red-top rag called the Courier, which specialises in printing just a few too many details about rape cases, for readers who want more buzz of outrage or whatever else than they can get off the normal papers. His look is Poet Meets Pervert – floppy shirts and a dandruffy mac, wavy dark ponytail groomed over a big oily bald spot – and his face is permanently set on Righteous Offence. I’d rather brush my teeth with a chainsaw than tip off Crowley.

‘Did the killer stalk his victim should women in the area be taking precautions our readers deserve to know—’

Voice recorder in my face, phone clicking away in his other hand, waft of foul patchouli pomade off his hair – Crowley just about comes up to my nose. I manage not to shoulder the little bollix in the gob on my way past him; can’t be arsed with the paperwork. Behind me I hear Steve say cheerily, ‘No comment. No comment on the no comment. No comment on the no comment on the no comment.’

The cluster of kids scattering again, open-mouthed. The lace curtains vibrating. The hard chill of the air, after that overheated house. Crowley jerks his voice recorder back just in time, before I slam the car door on it. I reverse out into the road without looking behind me.

‘That little git,’ Steve says, shaking his jacket sleeves like Crowley dandruffed him. ‘That was quick. In time for the afternoon edition, and all.’

‘“Detectives Refuse to Deny Stalker Rumours. Detectives Baffled by Possible Serial Killer. Detectives: No Comment on Local Women’s Terror.” ’ I don’t even know where we’re going, we don’t have Lucy Riordan’s address, but I’m driving like we’re in a chase. ‘“Detectives Punch Shitty Excuse for Journalist in the Fucking Teeth.” ’

Over the last few months Crowley has been turning up at too many of my scenes, too fast. We have history – last year, he was trying to browbeat a quote out of a teenager who’d seen her drug-dealer da take two in the back of the head, I told him if he didn’t fuck off I’d arrest him for hindering my investigation, he flounced off making offended noises about police brutality and freedom of the press and Nelson Mandela – but it’s not like that puts me in a minority: half the force has told Crowley to fuck off, one way or another. There’s no reason he should pick me out for revenge, specially not all this time later. And even if his tiny mind has decided to fixate on me, that doesn’t explain how he’s finding out about my cases as soon as I do.