Beth nodded a greeting to Unthank and took a seat at her desk. At the other side of the room, Thompson aimed scowls at the kettle as if his displeasure at the early hour was enough to make it boil itself.

‘Right.’ O’Dowd strode in brandishing a sheet of paper. ‘Fingerprint results are in. We have a name for our victim. More than that, we have his address and just about everything we could want to know about him, with the obvious exception of who killed him. He is Angus Keane, a forty-two-year-old self-employed builder. Got himself arrested a couple of years ago for affray when he had a punch-up. According to the census report, he’s survived by his wife and two daughters. His wife reported him missing several days ago.’

Beth sat back in her seat and allowed the hush of the office to wash over her. She may be new to FMIT, but she’d soon learned O’Dowd’s penchant for the dramatic. Pauses like this one were the DI’s way of emphasising points, and of making sure her team had the necessary time and motivation to digest the finer nuances of situations.

‘Has someone done the knock?’

Beth shot a grateful look at Unthank, glad he’d been the one to ask the question they all wanted to know the answer to. Her previous DI had been a cruel man and had deferred the unpleasant duty onto the person who asked the question.

‘No, Paul, no one’s done the knock.’ Beth saw the pen pointed her way and tried not to let her face show the sinking of her heart. ‘Beth and I will go and inform the wife. You two can start identifying his family and workmates. We’re going to need to speak to them.’

Beth raised a tentative hand. ‘How much are you planning to tell the family, ma’am?’

‘We have to tell them everything; the press has already got hold of this one, so anything we don’t tell them will be found out anyway. We have to have full transparency, regardless of how much it may upset the family. And put your hand down, you’re not at bloody school.’

To save herself further embarrassment, Beth changed the subject. ‘Any word on the post-mortem, ma’am?’

‘Tomorrow morning at half seven.’

‘Tomorrow? Why not today? Why are they waiting until tomorrow?’ The questions were out before Beth could stop them. The first forty-eight hours of any investigation were critical, to lose twenty-four of them waiting on a post-mortem was beyond ridiculous.

‘Because the chief super is a man whose main aim in life is to have a balanced spreadsheet; because our budget is thinner than a prison roll-up, and because while there are three pathologists in Cumbria, annoyingly there’s only one worth listening to, and like the pain in the arse he is, he point-blank refuses to work a Sunday.’

‘Why?’

‘Believe it or not, Dr Hewson is an ardent churchgoer, and for the last fifteen years he’s been the organist at his church. He’ll work twenty hours a day Monday to Saturday, but he won’t do a thing on a Sunday. This plays right into the hands of the bean-counting chief super, so he’s never pushed the issue.’

Beth was incredulous at the calm acceptance in O’Dowd’s voice. While she knew she wouldn’t dare, she wanted to go and bang on the chief super’s door, demand the resources necessary to have the post-mortem done today, and then force Dr Hewson to pick up his scalpel. It was a moot point. Chief supers weren’t at their desks on a Sunday morning unless there was a major flap on. As brutal and horrific as Angus Keane’s murder was, one death, however grisly, wouldn’t be reason enough to make the chief super attend.

As she looked at Unthank for support she could feel her clenched fists scrubbing at the desk.

The support didn’t come. But neither did any censure.

O’Dowd and Unthank were looking at her with curious expressions while Thompson still hadn’t looked her way.

Beth couldn’t contain her frustration any longer. ‘How are we meant to do our jobs with one hand tied behind our backs, ma’am?’

‘One handed.’ O’Dowd gave Beth a glare and then pointed her pen at Unthank and Thompson; she passed a sheet of paper to Thompson. ‘Off you go, boys. Once you’re in the vicinity, wait until I tell you I’m going in. We need to get the timelines right. Beth and I must be first.’

Beth knew what O’Dowd meant about timings. With social media such a powerful force, there had to be coordination between the teams to make sure family members found out the news in the correct order. They also had to ensure that until they’d spoken to key family members, the news was kept off sites like Facebook and Twitter.

Beth was about to rise from her chair when O’Dowd perched a buttock on the corner of her desk and motioned for her to remain seated.

‘You ever played cards?’

The question seemed odd to Beth, but she answered it with honesty, certain O’Dowd’s reason for asking would become clear. ‘I suppose, I used to play gin rummy with my gran.’

‘What did you do when you got a bad hand?’

‘I don’t know. I guess I played it as carefully as possible and looked for a way to turn it into a winning hand?’

‘Good answer. Police work is the same as cards. You rarely get the hand you want, and if you do, it’s usually because of dumb luck or someone else’s stupidity. We have to play the hands we get dealt.’

‘Sorry, ma’am. It just frustrates me that we can’t get the full resources the case deserves.’ Beth took a leap of faith, brushed the hair back from her face and looked into O’Dowd’s eyes. ‘How do you cope with the frustration?’

‘I choose to use it as a propellant rather than kryptonite. Let your frustrations overwhelm you or dominate your thinking and you’ll be an alcoholic in two years. Let them drive you and you’ll be in my job in six.’ O’Dowd flapped a hand at the seats vacated by Thompson and Unthank. ‘Those two get it. They understand the way the game is played, and while they don’t like the rules, they know how to play the game. What Thompson did to you yesterday, don’t let it get to you. He’s got external pressures, and between you and me, it’s only his dedication to duty that’s stopping him from getting signed off with stress.’

‘I don’t want to sound like I’m brown-nosing, ma’am, but thanks.’ Beth knew O’Dowd was astute enough to understand what she meant.

‘Think nothing of it.’ O’Dowd stood and pulled a resigned grimace. ‘C’mon, we’ve got three lives we have to shatter and, as rough as it’s going to be, the sooner we’ve done it, the sooner we can ask Mrs Keane who she thinks might have killed her husband.’