Convicted at thirty-two and released six months ago, Joanne would be thirty-five now. The picture resting on Carla’s knee was of a woman ravaged by grief and despair – her blonde hair dishevelled, her eye make-up smudged which caused her eyes to appear almost black – so she didn’t dare think what the intervening years had done.

‘You nervous?’

They were the first words Bremer had spoken and she turned to him in surprise.

‘Yes, a little.’

He nodded, eyes still on the road, the slick hum of the Mercedes engine beneath them.

‘Understood. And I’m sorry if it’s put you at odds with Nell.’ He glanced across at her. ‘When I got here from the Met it took me by surprise how little analysts are involved in cases. Stuck in little rooms away from the action.’ He gave her a smile. ‘You see to me, the analyst isn’t there to do research for the officers, they are there to direct the officers. You find things out that direct where we go, what we see. It’s important you’re at the heart of the case, not on the periphery.’

Before Carla could reply, he carried on.

‘So when we meet Joanne, just follow my lead. You’re there to pick apart what she says, see what bits you can analyse. If you need to ask a question to help do that, feel free. If she agrees to speak to us it won’t be a recorded interview so don’t worry about ballsing up the case by not asking a question in the right way. It’s just a chat, got it?’

‘Got it.’ Carla wasn’t convinced she had but she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him now.

Bremer smiled again. ‘Good. Right, address?’

Carla directed them through the myriad of roundabouts filtering cars to opposite ends of the city and led them towards Summertown, a suburb of Oxford where houses cost a minimum of a million and charity shops stocked the latest lines of discarded designer wear at a fraction of the cost.

The Fowlers lived in a cul-de-sac of tall town houses arranged around a neatly tended patch of grass that was ringed by a black iron fence and trees so tall they blocked out most of the light. Bremer pulled the car to the front of number 4. A set of smooth concrete steps led up to a light grey door framed on either side by two small round potted trees, a contrast against the pure white of the painted brick.

‘Nice.’ Bremer turned off the engine and nodded to two cars on the sloping drive. ‘Looks like the husband’s in.’

‘You think they know we’re coming?’ Carla wasn’t prepared for the husband too.

‘I don’t see how they’d know,’ Bremer replied. Carla wasn’t reassured by his tone, but then who would have told him?