Chloe and a uniformed officer got out of the police car outside Sian Foster’s home and studied the abuse that had been spray-painted across the front of the terraced house. It hadn’t taken long for news to spread, and Julie Morris and her younger grandson, Curtis, had been moved from their home for the sake of their safety and to keep them away from the press vultures that had descended on them following news of Tyler’s crimes. Sian had also been offered alternative accommodation but had decided to stay put. Media interest was something she was used to by now, or perhaps she had simply resigned herself to her family’s doom.

The words FUCKING SCUM were scrawled across the front door in black paint, and a tin of red had been thrown against the window, running down the glass and drying in thick, guilty trails.

It seemed fitting in more ways than one.

At the sound of the doorbell, there was movement at the front curtains. Chloe waited before pressing the doorbell for a second time. She lifted the letter box. ‘We’ve got all day, Sian,’ she called inside.

Moments later, a reluctant Sian opened the front door. She was wearing a dressing gown, and her greasy hair was scraped back from her face and tucked behind her ears with a collection of hairgrips. The bruises staining her face were beginning to fade.

Chloe glanced behind her. There were already neighbours at their front doors, standing with arms folded and waiting for further drama to unfold. ‘Shall we do this inside?’ she suggested.

The house had been turned upside down by the police during their search and it looked as though Sian had done nothing to address the mess that had been made. In the living room, the cupboards and drawers of a sideboard still stood open, their contents strewn across the laminate floor. Sian seemed to have set up camp on one end of the sofa, where a duvet was piled. A table beside it had gathered a collection of mugs that housed unfinished drinks left to turn cold and grow mouldy films across their surface.

‘Have you been to visit Keeley?’ Chloe asked.

Sian shook her head.

‘I’m guessing you know what we’re here about?’

Sian nodded. Her eyes scanned the room and searched out a pair of trainers that had been kicked off and abandoned by the doorway. ‘Can I get dressed?’

‘Were you hoping Keeley would take the blame for it?’ Chloe asked, ignoring Sian’s question. ‘You must have thought you were in the clear once your daughter’s crimes were exposed.’

Sian looked away. It was obvious what the answer was. With everything else Keeley was guilty of, who wouldn’t have believed it?

‘What did Alex ever do to you, really? All she did was try to protect your family.’ Chloe pushed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, fighting to keep her emotions in check. First the daughter, now the mother. The whole family was saturated with cruel intent.

‘I wasn’t thinking straight,’ Sian said, her eyes still fixed to the floor. ‘The rejection of Nathan’s appeal came through and I just …’

‘You just what? You just thought someone needed to pay for it?’

When Sian’s laptop had been accessed, her internet search history had been checked. On it had been searches for how to cut a brake fluid line. It was the obvious assumption to think Keeley had been responsible for the searches, but Sian had obviously had no reason to believe that her home would ever be searched or her laptop seized by police.

Chloe stepped forward. She lowered her face to Sian’s, forcing the woman to look up from the floor and make eye contact. ‘There was nothing wrong with your thinking, was there, Sian? If you weren’t thinking straight, the graffiti on her front door would have been enough. That might have been excusable as a moment of madness. But it wasn’t enough for you, was it? You went back, and you went back with intent. There’s nothing spur-of-the moment about that.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Sian said, the words desperate and pathetic.

‘Save it for the jury. Sian Foster, I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of Alex King.’