Jessica snatched the Post-it note with the Samaritans’ number on and balled it up. ‘Why do you think all that stuff got leaked to the papers this morning? All the magistrates around here would’ve seen that. Our lot will take him to court this afternoon and they’ll remember the name. Who’s going to let him out when they’ve already heard the story? Someone’s been very clever.’

Izzy lowered her voice: ‘The guv?’

Jessica launched the Post-it note at the bin and missed – as usual. She shook her head. ‘He’s acting like a dick but this isn’t his style. Someone else.’ Before Izzy could add anything, Jessica changed the subject. ‘Any luck finding Bones?’

Izzy ran a hand through her sodden hair. ‘You’d think that if you had your head tattooed, then it might be hard to go incognito, but we’ve not had a single sighting – plus we can’t get anything on the news because they’re obsessed with the hazing thing and that knocked-up soap star. The only place we’ve got his picture out is on the force’s website and no one looks at that.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find him.’

‘He’s probably in the Maldives by now. Anyway, don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject. What are you going to do about everything going on around here?’

‘Keep acting as if everything’s fine and everyone can walk all over me.’

Izzy tilted her head to the side, unconvinced. ‘What are you really going to do?’

Jessica winked at her friend. ‘I’ll think of something.’

18

As it was, Jessica didn’t have much time to think of anything because everything around the station went into meltdown when the call came through that another body had been found. Whoever had killed Cassie Edmonds hadn’t stopped with just her. The killing of Grace Savage lived up to the young woman’s surname. She had been dumped in a ditch in Little Hurst Wood, barely half a mile from where Cassie had been found. The crime scene was in a marginally better state given that it had been discovered by two kids skiving off school, as opposed to a clumsy dog-walker, but the torrent of the night before had done little to preserve the site.

The bad news didn’t end there: because they were almost certain Grace had been murdered the night before, the nine people of interest they’d brought in in relation to Cassie’s death were being interviewed at the station at the time Grace was killed, meaning that they were off the hook. It had been a long shot anyway; now, alongside a second victim, they officially had no suspects. As well as the beating her body had been given, the killer had again used a knife to nick away small parts of her body post mortem. It was yet to be confirmed but there was no obvious sexual motive, with the fingertip search in the rain throwing up nothing other than a lot of tired, wet, muddy officers.

A deep-seated hatred of women and an anger problem indeed.

Grace’s husband, Nick, had already been notified but someone had to take a formal statement. Feeling left out of the Potter case and as useless as she had done in years, Jessica went to do the dirty work. She arrived at the Moston house sopping wet, Izzy in tow, both of them nursing bruised egos – not that any of that compared to what Nick was going through.

A liaison officer let them into the house and then scuttled off to make some tea. If there was one thing you had to be able to do well when you were a liaison officer, it was make tea. Jessica assumed that the first week of the course was spent figuring out the exact amount of milk it took to make a perfect brew and stirring techniques. Week two would be the application of sugar, whether brown was better than white, and how to ensure there was no sludge in the bottom of the mug.

Then they’d move on to how to talk to a man whose wife had been beaten, murdered and sliced to pieces.

Nick was sitting in an armchair, legs curled under him, staring into the nothingness of the wall in front of him. In his hand an empty mug dangled, perilously close to slipping onto the floor.

Jessica introduced herself and sat with Izzy on the sofa. The sergeant had her notebook and pen out; just like the old days, before station politics and arseholes took over the asylum. Well, there were always arseholes – they just hadn’t always been in charge.

‘Can you talk me through yesterday evening?’ Jessica asked.

Nick had an earring in each ear, a stud through his nose and a ring through his lip. Above him, there was a wedding photograph on the wall, him with his bald head atop a grey suit, Grace looking every inch the perfect bride: her hair in long dark ringlets, beautiful smile, glint in her eye. Nick clucked his tongue into the lip ring and closed his eyes. ‘She goes to yoga every Monday.’

‘Where?’

‘This place near the Arndale – she works in the centre, so it’s easier for her to be a member of a gym there and then come home after rush hour. You know what the traffic’s like. I can’t remember the name of it but I’ve got the details somewhere.’

He motioned to stand but Jessica stopped him – they’d already checked those details after identifying her by crosschecking the missing persons reports. They had the CCTV from outside the fitness studio of her leaving on foot. It was only a quarter of a mile away from the spot from where Cassie had disappeared.

Before Jessica could ask anything else, the liaison officer entered with the brews, with Jessica’s as perfect as she expected it to be. As Nick swapped his empty mug for a full one, cupping his fingers around it for warmth, Jessica couldn’t help but feel England really was a ridiculous place. For all the prejudged ideas those from overseas had about Brits thinking a cup of tea made everything better, people really did everything to live up to the cliché. She had definitely become worse as she’d got older.

‘Did your wife usually walk home from the gym?’ Jessica asked.

Nick shook his head. ‘Occasionally in the summer, never in the dark.’

She wanted him to finish the story without her having to ask but he stopped to have another sip of his drink and then sat in a dazed silence.

‘It was dark yesterday . . .’

‘I know. It’s bloody November.’

‘What happened?’

‘Our car’s bollocksed – this piece of shit Peugeot. The bloody thing’s always breaking down. We were at the Trafford Centre this weekend, mooching around looking for Christmas presents, like you do. The place was heaving: kids screaming, people with huge bags, all sorts trying to get you into their shops. It was a nightmare, then we got outside and the car wouldn’t start. We had to sit there waiting for the AA to turn up and tow us home. Grace was always going on about what a shit-heap it was – well, she didn’t put it like that . . .’

Nick’s voice cracked and he stopped for another drink. Jessica knew exactly what it was like to have a car like that. There had been more than one occasion where she’d had to be towed home, although her old Fiat had now reached a sort of beatified state in her mind where she only remembered the good old days of strong-arming it around a corner while crunching through the gears. If she really, really tried, Jessica could recall all the times she’d cursed it and threatened any number of despicable acts upon it for not starting.

When he had settled, Nick continued. ‘Grace had a bit of time off work ill at the end of the summer, so there was no way she could take any more. I phoned in sick yesterday, then spent the day trying to get the car into a garage. She took the bus to work, even though she hates it. I normally give her a lift in because the bus is always over-crowded and you have to stand. Then it’s full of window-lickers too.’ He glanced up at Jessica. ‘I suppose you drive everywhere?’