At the back of the building, bright white lights seared through the night, illuminating the grass verge that surrounded it. Jessica followed the light until the all-too-familiar shapes of the paper-suited Scene of Crime officers came into view. One of them was leaning into a tall metal wheelie bin, its once blue sides scratched grey, as another ducked into a translucent white tent.

Jessica didn’t need to go any closer to figure out what had happened. ‘Was the body actually in the bin?’ she called across.

One of the female SOCOs she recognised but didn’t know the name of eyed her suspiciously, until Jessica stepped into the light and revealed herself. ‘Thrown out like an old takeaway tub,’ the officer replied grimly.

‘Is the bin full?’

The woman shrugged, not knowing why it mattered, but she nodded anyway. It took Jessica a moment to remember which day it was: one of the curses of age.

Thursday, definitely Thursday.

With the bin full, it seemed likely that today was collection day – or would have been if the bin men weren’t on strike. It had been on the lunchtime news that they’d walked out that morning, protesting at a colleague’s suspension. She wondered if the killer knew the routine, assuming the body would be landfill by now. If it wasn’t for the industrial dispute, it probably would have been.

Jessica scanned the rest of the alleyway without edging any closer; the days of inspectors trampling on crime scenes were long gone. The wheelie bin was next to another, both pressed against a red-brick wall close to a fire exit. Above, a steep grass bank sloped down from the park towards a rough patch of concrete. Aside from a stray crisp packet blowing from side to side and the Scene of Crime gear, the alley was clear.

Sometimes you wanted to see more but occasionally the setting was enough, knowing that a person had been tossed away like they were nothing. Jessica would wait for the photographs and report.

She felt the wind bite, whistling between the verge and the clubhouse as she turned and headed back up the slope towards the other officers. Jessica approached the constable from before, who was standing by himself tapping something into his phone.

‘Any clue on the identity?’ she asked.

He looked up, nodding. ‘There was a wallet in his pocket. They’ve bagged it but there was a student ID in there. Some kid named Damon Potter; nineteen years old, local by the looks of it. We did an informal ID from the photo on the card and someone’s on the way to see his parents so they can make it official. Paperwork’s already being sorted. Poor sods. I’m surprised they called you down.’

At least the evening crew knew what they were doing, which was more than could be said for the new recruits on day shift. Jessica wouldn’t trust some of them to tie their own shoelaces.

With the SOCO team doing their jobs, the initial admin in hand, and not much more likely to be confirmed until morning, the handful of officers had begun to drift away, cleaner Pavel in tow. They were either heading for the patrol cars to go back to the station, or they’d felt the siren’s call from the kebab shop around the corner. Jessica knew where her money lay.

As she started digging for her car keys, Jessica noticed someone hurrying towards them: a tall, slender frame with large shoulders illuminated in the mishmash of light. The DC gave Jessica his best ‘no idea’ shrug as they waited. As he got closer, Jessica could see that the man was in his early twenties, athletic, with eyes that were darting past them towards the slope that led down to the boathouse. His tan was apparent even in the faded light, tufty sand-coloured hair topping off the beach-bum look.

Ignoring Jessica, he went straight to the constable, standing a good four inches taller than him and introducing himself as Holden Wyatt, student president of the university rowing club. Even before she heard the accent – gently northern but with the harsher twang coached away – Jessica knew the type. He’d ignored her because he’d automatically assumed a man would be in charge.

‘I got a call from campus security,’ Holden said.

‘Do you know Damon Potter?’ Jessica asked.

He spun to face her, realising his mistake and weighing Jessica up in an instant by running his eyes up and down her. He was seemingly used to being in charge of situations and followed with a short, assertive nod, before pushing himself up onto the tips of his toes, ensuring he towered over her. ‘Who are you?’

Jessica took her identification from her pocket and held it in the light for him to see. ‘De-tect-ive In-spec-tor.’ The words rolled around Holden’s mouth, as if he didn’t quite believe them. ‘Why have I been called down?’ he added.

Jessica didn’t actually know but she wasn’t going to show him that. ‘I tend to ask the questions. That’s where the whole “detective” bit comes from. Anyway: Damon Potter – who is he?’

Holden’s nose twitched and he looked skywards, biting his bottom lip as if trying to remember. It was a show entirely for her benefit as there was recognition in his eyes.

‘I think he’s one of our members. Perhaps a first year? The newbies only join in September or sometimes October, so I don’t know everyone yet.’

‘How many members do you have?’

‘Active? Eighty or so – I’m not sure. We have a membership secretary. Then there are life members, alumni, the president and so on.’

‘And you’re affiliated to the university?’

Holden’s head bobbed from side to side before he nodded. ‘Traditionally, yes, but we have our own constitution. Members must come from the university but we’re not a part of the students’ union, or the university itself.’

‘Do you get funding from them?’

‘A little.’

‘And how do you get to become student president?’

Holden glanced at the constable, wondering why he was being questioned. ‘Look, it’s getting late. I thought there’d been a break-in, or something. Is there a problem with the club? Or Damon?’

Jessica checked her watch, making the point that it wasn’t that late, and then nodded. ‘It’s not been confirmed but Damon’s body was found dumped in one of the bins at the back of your clubhouse.’

For a moment, Holden stared at her. She could almost see the cogs whirring in his head. ‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know yet. When did you last see him?’

Holden ran his hand through his thin mop of curls and noisily blew out through his mouth. A thin stream of breath spiralled into the air, making Jessica realise that it was now colder than it had been. ‘I’m not sure – we have a lot of new members at this time of year. Most of the first years row in their own teams because we already have established line-ups. I’m in the final year of my master’s and don’t necessarily know everyone. We have our own schedules for practising and so on.’

Jessica took a business card from her pocket and told him to call her if he remembered anything else about Damon. He asked if he could check the club over but she told him not until their search teams had picked through everything. After his previous confidence, Holden now seemed distracted, scratching his head and rocking back on his heels, losing an inch or so of height. He read the details on Jessica’s card before pocketing it and turning to walk back the way he’d come. They would need to talk again properly but she wanted to know her facts before she went eyeball to chest with him again – she was certain he hadn’t told her the entire truth.

As Jessica was about to call the station to find out where the search team was, the first drops of rain began to clatter onto the path. She felt sure that whoever had left the body knew what they were doing and wouldn’t have trampled across the grass at the back of the club – but an evening of rain wasn’t going to help.

Welcome to Manchester: mild one minute, chilly the next, pouring down moments later.