After, as she stood there holding the mobile in her hand, she felt a chill run up her spine despite the warm night air. What had she done? What had she agreed to? What if it was a trap? But why should Jade try to trap her? She’d said she was going away, and this was no doubt her parting shot against the men who had shamed and humiliated her and Mimsy. Gerry understood the need for secrecy well enough, but she also knew that if she went under Jade’s rules, there was a strong likelihood that nothing she got would be of any use in court. Even if that were the case, at least she would have names and the full story, so they would know where to focus their investigation. The only things she could rely on happening were another bollocking and a possible suspension, or worse. And even if Jade had no reason to set a trap for her, she could be the bait. The gang that had groomed Jade and Mimsy, or the men who had raped Mimsy, could be behind it, even the killer. Maybe Jade was being held against her will, forced to do this. But that made no sense, Gerry told herself; she was just being paranoid.

She knew that she should call DI Cabbot immediately and go in with a team, but when it came down to it, Jade was still just a kid, whatever her experiences. Gerry couldn’t bring herself to break a promise or to leave her out there alone. No doubt too many people had broken promises to Jade in her young life already, and Gerry didn’t want to be just another person who let her down. It was a miracle she trusted anyone to start with. She tried to think what DI Cabbot or Detective Superintendent Banks would do in her situation, and she thought they would go. She would try to bring Jade in, she determined, try to persuade her to come and make an official statement, offer to protect her from the men.

But she had to go, and she had to go on Jade’s terms. Before she left, she had a look in her fridge to see what she’d got for a sandwich.

BURGESS HAD chosen the Indian restaurant on Market Street, not far from where Banks and Sandra used to live in Eastvale, partly because it stayed open late. Banks had only eaten takeaway from there before, and it had always been good. The meal that evening, with accompanying canned sitar music, dim lighting and cold lager, was also good.

Burgess licked his fingers after shoving a vindaloo-loaded piece of naan in his mouth and reached for his glass. “Bloody hot,” he said, when he could speak.