Alex glanced down at the buttons on her shirt before putting on her jacket. It was always the last thing she checked before addressing the press. Nothing would help skew attention from the case in hand like the unintentional flash of a detective’s bra. It was a sad fact that journalists’ attention could be so easily swayed, and that nothing was more enjoyable to them than finding ways in which to undermine or bring embarrassment to the police. And any scandal would be jumped upon; in Alex’s experience, they actively searched for it. Years earlier, she had naively assumed that the press would work alongside the police, with a mutual interest in the pursuit of justice. Now, older and wiser, she realised that nothing was allowed to get in the way of a good story, least of all the truth.

She had joined the police service eighteen years earlier and during that time had experienced multiple cases in which journalists had been responsible for misrepresentation. At their worst, she had seen them jeopardise convictions, unwittingly empowering guilty men to walk free. Almost a year earlier, they had been responsible for bringing shame to Chloe, tarnishing her with a reputation she was still having to work hard to banish. As far as Alex was concerned, any form of relationship she might have previously had with the press was now dead.

She resented what she was about to face, as brief as this statement would inevitably be. The cameras that would be pointed accusingly towards her, questioning why more hadn’t yet been done; the microphones that would be shoved in her face as soon as she was finished speaking; the inane questions that would pour from the mouths of local journalists, despite her standard closing sentence that she had no further information to offer. The statement she was about to give that day was to be a short one – there was little at this stage that they were able to disclose – but she hoped that in making public at least a few details of their victim, someone might come forward to identify him. Surely someone must have known this man and missed him in the time that had passed since Thursday night.

She addressed the waiting press outside the police station in Pontypridd.

‘There have been a number of cases of arson in the Rhondda valleys over the previous few months, but this latest incident sadly involves loss of life. On Thursday night, a fire was started in one of the buildings that formerly made up the hospital in Llwynypia. At this stage we can give very few details about the victim other than that he was male and aged between forty and sixty. We have reason to believe he may have been homeless and using the hospital building for shelter, and are therefore keen to speak to anyone with links to the homeless community who may be able to offer identification of the victim or his family.’

She paused, deliberating over her next words: words that had been carefully prepared in advance. Poor phrasing could easily lead to misinterpretation, and that was something the press would inevitably jump upon. She didn’t want to create fear among the public with any suggestion of murder, though there was no doubt that murder was what they were dealing with. Had the man’s attacker known that he was already dead before the fire was started?

‘If anyone has any information regarding the fire, or any details regarding a missing person that may help us identify the victim of this incident, please contact the number shown on the screen below.’

Alex moved away from her audience, but the questions that were thrown at her came too quickly for her to escape them. A young man with an oversized beard that looked as though something might have recently been living in it thrust a microphone towards her.

‘DI King, do we know how the fire was started?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning sharply back to the press and avoiding eye contact with the man. ‘That’s really all we have for you at the moment.’

She headed back into the station and closed the door on the babble of chatter and gossip that swelled behind her. A sigh of relief involuntarily escaped her.

‘Well?’ asked Dan, meeting Alex in the corridor on the first floor. ‘How did it go?’

‘Let’s hope for the best, as always. Likely a waste of time, but we’ll have to wait and see.’

She feared the statement would lead to an inevitable stream of calls from time-wasters, as seemed to be the case with every television appeal they put out. Occasionally there would be a scrap of something useful among them – something that would make the countless dead ends worthwhile – but the occasions on which this happened were few and far between, though they were enough to merit putting themselves out there and hoping for something that might move an investigation forward.

‘Guess what I’ve just heard,’ Dan said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

Alex pulled a face. ‘Christmas is coming early this year? Jake just worked out how to use the coffee machine without breaking it?’

Dan laughed. ‘Slow down … we’re not quite there yet. You remember Christian Coleman?’

‘As if I could forget.’

Christian Coleman had been well known to South Wales Police for over a decade, having made more visits to Pontypridd station’s cells over the years than a duty solicitor. His police record ran longer than the River Taff and had only been brought to an end when his son had attempted to kill him by lacing a takeaway curry with antifreeze.

‘He’s been released.’

‘Already?’ Alex held the door open for Dan and followed him through to the incident room.

‘I know. Makes a mockery of the whole bloody system, doesn’t it?’

Despite the fact that Christian Coleman had been a wife-beater and all-round thug, he’d been sentenced to just five years in prison. That had been little more than two years earlier.

‘I wonder what the family make of it.’

‘His ex-wife had a restraining order against him, didn’t she? Don’t know whether that still stands.’

Alex’s eyes scanned the room, though she took in none of the details of the team at work. Her thoughts were elsewhere, back at home: back on the hateful graffiti that had been sprayed across her front door.

She was the one who had interviewed and charged Christian Coleman following the brutal assault that had left the mother of his two children hospitalised. She had also appeared in court to give evidence against him, as had his ex-wife. He had tried to break Sian Foster during their years of marriage, but an underlying streak of determination saw her take the stand to make sure the man who had wrought such cruelty on her family was finally brought to justice.

And what had been the last thing Christian Coleman had said to Alex before he’d been sent down? I’ll fucking kill you, you ugly whore.

Whore.

She shook herself from her thoughts. There were plenty of people who had called her all sorts of things over the past two decades. It was just a word; it didn’t mean anything. Focusing her attention on the evidence board at the back of the incident room, she resolved not to waste any further time thinking about it.