The photographer was tall and lanky with spiky black hair and was possibly the most enthusiastic person Jessica had ever had the misfortune of meeting. She was on her way out of the station when Cole told her to have her picture taken before she left. The man had set himself up with his camera in the ridiculously named Longsight Press Pad, which was the room where the force held media briefings. He seemed utterly oblivious to the fact Jessica had work to do and had no pretensions of wanting to be a model. She thought it would be a quick glance at the camera and then she would be on her way. Instead, the photographer had perched her on the edge of a desk and was trying to get her to twist her head to the side and smile. Jessica thought she was smiling but, apparently, whatever look she was giving wasn’t good enough.

‘That’s brilliant,’ the photographer said as his camera flash went off again. ‘Right, a couple more. Look down a bit, please.’ Jessica tilted her head once more. ‘No, further down,’ the photographer added.

‘I am looking down.’

‘No, tilt your head down then look up.’

‘I thought you wanted me to look down?’

‘No, angle down, eyes up.’

Part of Jessica’s job involved trying to get into the minds of criminals and finding out why they did what they did. As she tried to force another smile, she thought the unrelenting cheerfulness in the photographer’s voice went some way to helping her understand what could make a person turn to violence. If anyone was unfortunate enough to share a house with this man and ended up smacking him in his gormless, grinning face, she thought a plea of temporary insanity would be a very easy sell for a solicitor.

‘Right, that’s brilliant,’ the photographer announced, finally lowering the camera. Jessica didn’t give him an opportunity to add a ‘Let’s just try this . . .’ before standing and storming past him out of the room.

Jessica was well aware she had always been short-tempered. She could remember being a child and her mother telling her to ‘count to ten’. The problem was she would get to two, occasionally three, and be too frustrated to get anywhere near ten. She knew there was undoubtedly a psychologist, psychiatrist, psychoanalyst, or some other person who stuck the letter ‘p’ randomly at the beginning of their title who was waiting to pick her apart one day. She figured the more time she spent around joyful photographers, the sooner that day would come.

Jessica stomped through reception and headed out of the station towards her car, her mood not improving as yet again it had begun to drizzle and she had again forgotten to bring a jacket. She dashed across the car park and struggled to unlock her car before finally hurling herself onto the driver’s seat and slamming the door. She took a deep breath – another piece of advice from her mother about keeping cool – and realised that a lot of her annoyance was down to the fact she hadn’t been looking forward to the day anyway.

Cole had called her the previous evening to say that Isaac Hutchings’s mother had asked if she could speak to the person who found her son’s body. In policing terms there was no particular need for Jessica to visit her because other officers had been dealing with the initial missing child aspect of the case, and a support officer would also be assigned. The woman had given several statements and certainly wasn’t a suspect. Despite all of that – and even after the chief inspector said it was her call – there was no way Jessica was going to deny a grieving mother such a simple request.

That didn’t mean she was looking forward to it.

Everyone in the force had experience of breaking bad news or dealing with people coping with extreme situations but there was no textbook to predict how a mother who had just lost a child would react.

Izzy was still in the process of looking through unsolved cases. The task was complicated because a computer system upgrade a few years previously had copied some files but not others. Everything was a mix of digital information and actual paper trails. After Cole’s call the previous evening, Jessica thought about taking Izzy with her to see Isaac’s mother but figured it would be pretty insensitive given her friend was pregnant. Not to mention it would be for Jessica’s own indulgence when the officer would be better employed going over the old files.

Jessica drove through the rain to the address she had printed off. The Hutchingses’ house was pretty similar to the one Daisy Peters was renting a few miles away. Isaac’s mother was obviously expecting Jessica and invited her straight into their living room before introducing herself as Kayla and offering the obligatory cup of tea.

Jessica had read the Isaac Hutchings file thoroughly and knew his mother was only thirty-four, the same age as she was. As well as Isaac, she had a daughter, Jenny, who was thirteen. As Kayla brought in two mugs of tea and placed them on a coffee table, Jessica thought she would have struggled to guess the woman’s age if she hadn’t known. The greasy unwashed black hair and sallow skin colouring, coupled with dark bags under her eyes, made her look comfortably into her forties. Jessica was well aware it was almost impossible for someone childless, as she was, to understand what the woman in front of her had gone through.

Kayla sat on the brown sofa next to Jessica and offered a weary smile. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘The person I spoke with said they didn’t know if they would be able to arrange it . . .’

Jessica shuffled in her seat, uncomfortable at meeting the woman’s stare. ‘It’s not a problem. What would you like to know?’

Kayla stumbled over her words. ‘I . . . I don’t know really. They’ve not let us have the body back yet so we can’t even plan the funeral. My husband, Mike, went back to work yesterday. I didn’t want him to but I think he just felt trapped in here . . .’

She indicated towards a selection of photographs pinned on the wall. Jessica had noticed them as soon as she entered the living room. They showed various shots of Isaac and his sister playing, as well as group pictures of the parents with their children. Kayla tailed off before beginning to speak again. ‘I think I just wanted to hear what he was like when you found him.’

It was the question Jessica had expected but was dreading. She tried to choose her words carefully. ‘Mrs Hutchings, I . . .’

‘Kayla.’

‘Sorry, Kayla, I’m not really sure what I can tell you. You identified the body . . .’

‘I know but what was he like when you found him? I know he was in a car.’

Jessica had a tough decision to make. There were no rules she had to follow regarding disclosure of information, so she was free to tell the woman from that point of view – but it was always a balancing act of whether the information would cause too much emotional distress. Jessica glanced up and caught the woman’s pleading eyes, which made her mind up for her.

‘He was wrapped up in some sort of sheeting in the car boot when I found him. I didn’t really look at him too much after that.’

‘Did he look . . . okay?’

Sometimes people would only give a quick glance when identifying a body, not wishing to prolong their agony. She would have been told there was no sexual element to the disappearance but that would likely offer only a tiny amount of comfort. It was a hard question to answer. Jessica genuinely hadn’t seen that much of the boy after cutting him free.

‘He looked peaceful. His eyes were closed.’

It was about as much reassurance as Jessica could manage.

Kayla nodded, wiping around her eyes, although she wasn’t obviously crying. ‘Thanks.’ She sniffed, then continued. ‘Do you know how he disappeared?’

‘I read the file.’

Kayla nodded again but seemed keen to tell her story. ‘Everyone keeps saying, “It’s not your fault”, but it’s shit. They’re just words. I know it’s down to me. Mike blames me and he’s right.’