‘The woman found in the BMW’s boot was Helen Jackson,’ Laura said once Kate was belted in. ‘Last known address is her mum’s flat in Thornhill. I printed her file from the PNC database. There’s a copy in the glove box.’

Kate leaned forward and pulled the file out, flipping it open and devouring the details. ‘Born December 1993. Bloody hell, I was fourteen then.’

Laura chuckled. ‘It’s a good thing Patel isn’t here. You know how he feels about swearing.’

‘Where is he, anyway?’

‘The supe asked him to oversee the collection of evidence from the raid on Wednesday.’

Kate couldn’t think of a better person for the job. ‘Who is Helen’s next-of-kin?’

‘File lists it as Angie Jackson, her mother. You’ll see Helen had a number of small run-ins: shoplifting, possession of marijuana, antisocial behaviour. She never served more than a month inside, but there are no reported arrests in more than two years, so maybe she cleaned up her act?’

‘Or maybe she was killed for her habit.’

---

They fell into a comfortable silence as they moved out of the city, over the Northam Bridge and towards the high-rise towers dominating the skyline of Thornhill.

‘Jeez, this place doesn’t get any better, does it?’ Laura said, as she stared out of the window at the towers.

‘You sound worse than Underhill,’ Kate mocked. ‘Thornhill isn’t all that bad.’

Laura gave her a surprised look. ‘Are you joking?’

Kate looked out of her own window. Sure the tower blocks were covered in grime and graffiti, and the bus shelters were missing glass, but in her experience appearances could be deceptive. She’d seen enough horror in more affluent areas to ever make assumptions.

‘I know it’s got a bad reputation, but it’s the minority who cause that. Most people who live here aren’t troublemakers.’

Laura located the address and pulled up at the kerbside. ‘Yeah, bet you wouldn’t move here though.’

Kate ignored the jibe, knowing, deep down, she was right; not with her daughter Chloe visiting more and more these days. She unbuckled her seatbelt, the grey clouds overhead closing in. ‘Which block are they in?’

Laura climbed out and pointed to the middle of three stacks. ‘That one, I think. Tenner says we’ll have a broken window by the time we get back.’ She grinned to show she meant no offence.

Kate stepped out of the car onto the muddy grass, and Laura followed her to the entrance doors and up to the sixth floor. Kate steadied herself against the wall as the movement tugged at the last traces of her hangover, or perhaps her concussion.

‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Laura asked.

Kate opened the blister pack she’d stashed in her pocket and popped two more Oxycodone. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, willing it.

The door to flat six was beaten, weathered and in a terrible state, just like all the others on the row. There was no doorbell, so Laura thumped the palm of her hand against it and it was opened a moment later.

Laura raised her ID. ‘I’m DC Trotter, this is DI Matthews. Is Mrs Angie Jackson home?’

The man, who clutched the door like a shield, had a shaved head and a snake’s head tattoo on his neck. ‘Wha’ you want?’

‘Is Mrs Jackson home?’

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Nah, she’s at work.’

Laura stepped forward. ‘And who are you?’

‘I’m ’er ’usband, innit.’

‘You’re Mr Jackson?’

He puffed his chest out. ‘Tha’ s’what I said.’

Laura forced a thin smile. ‘Mr Jackson, would you mind if we came in?’

He looked from Laura to Kate and then back to Laura, before stepping aside and opening the door for them to enter. The hallway beyond was dark, the doors to the kitchen and bedrooms closed so the only light was coming from the open door, which Jackson swiftly closed behind them. A haze of stale marijuana smoke hung in the air and got stronger as he opened the door to his left into the living room. He pointed at a two-seater sofa for them to sit on. He sat in the single armchair, and reclined it. To the left of the armchair, a small table was topped by a glass ashtray overflowing with squashed, hand-rolled butts.

He caught Laura eyeing the butts. ‘They’re not mine.’

Laura waved her hand passively, before sitting. ‘We’re not here about that… is your wife due home any time soon?’

He glanced up at the wall above her head. ‘Not likely… she’s working late.’

Laura turned and spotted the clock on the wall. ‘Mr Jackson, I’m afraid there’s no easy way for me to say this… it’s about your daughter, Helen—’

‘Oh wha’s the silly cow gone and done now?’

Laura flattened her hands on her knees and looked at him solemnly. ‘I’m afraid we found Helen’s body in the early hours of yesterday morning. I’m so sorry, Mr Jackson.’

His forehead furrowed. ‘You what?’

Laura’s expression remained sincere. ‘We identified her via fingerprints. Is there anybody you’d like us to call to be with you?’

He blinked several times, and looked from Laura to Kate as if he was waiting for one of them to break and explain the joke. ‘Wait… this must be some… Helen? As in my Helen… no, it’s not… I mean, she can’t be…’

It never got easier. All the training and guidance provided for handling these situations, none of it really helped. Kate’s heart went out to him. She’d wanted to be the one to break the news of Amy’s death to her parents, but the DSI had forced her to remain at the station during the post-incident analysis. At times like this, the bereaved needed the support and understanding of friends.

The two women remained quiet, allowing him to digest the news. Jackson shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, not knowing where to look as his gaze darted around the room, finally resting on a silver photo frame on the wall above the television stand.

He launched out of his chair and grabbed the frame from the wall, thrusting it towards Kate. ‘You mean ’er? Is this who you mean? Are you sure?’

Kate leaned back, studying the image in the frame. She recognised Jackson sitting at the head of the table, a juicy-looking roast in front of him. To his right was a woman who looked like an older version of Helen – clearly her mother. And then to his left, holding the camera for the selfie was Helen herself: full of life, a large smile spread across her face.

Kate stood, and gently rehung the frame. ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Jackson.’

She’d lost count of the number of times she’d had to deliver this kind of news, and no two occasions had been the same; everyone acted differently. She glanced down at Laura, who was focusing on a point on the opposite wall, either not prepared to let her own emotions show, or unable to.

Jackson wiped his cheeks, before settling back into the armchair. Laura stood and offered to make him some tea.

He declined. ‘Wha’ ’appened to ’er, like?’

‘We are still investigating that at this time. What I can tell you is that we’re treating her death as suspicious.’

‘Wha’ does tha’ mean?’

Laura glanced back at Kate for support, but she was focusing back on the photograph. ‘It means we have reason to believe that she didn’t die of natural causes. As soon as we know more, we will—’

‘You think someone killed ’er?’

It was always tricky to know how a relative will respond to the news that their loved one was murdered. Some cried, some shouted, some refused to believe it. Everybody asked questions.

‘We believe that may be a possibility. As my colleague said, we are investigating the cause of her death. Can I ask when you last saw her?’

‘She had her own place, like. But she was here last weekend… for my birthday.’

‘And how did she seem? Was she troubled about anything?’

‘No, she were jus’ herself.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Was it tha’ Rhys?’

Kate’s eyes narrowed. ‘Rhys?’

‘Tha’ lowlife, shitbag of a boyfriend of ’ers.’

She looked to Laura, who took the cue and pulled out her notebook.

Kate turned back to Jackson, her pulse quickening at the prospect of an early lead. ‘What can you tell me about Rhys, Mr Jackson?’

‘Where do I start? I never liked the bastard.’

‘Can you tell me his full name?’

‘Rhys Leonard. He’s known to your lot. I told ’er he was trouble. I warned ’er. I told ’er mother only last week tha’ he was trouble. But would either of ’em listen to me? No, but I told ’em.’

‘What made you suspect he was trouble?’

‘Blokes like tha’ always are, aren’t they? You know the type: flash a bit of cash, but nothin’ ’angin’ between their legs where it matters, like. Mark my words: if someone killed ’er, it was probably him.’