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JIM I spoke to Emma before I left for work, a quick call because I’d missed her the night before. She answered her phone quickly – ‘Hey how are you?’ – but I could hear the drag of fatigue in her voice and she yawned generously. ‘Good. You? Did you sleep well?’ ‘What do you reckon?’ ‘I reckon you were awake half the night like me.’ ‘I was.’ ‘Are you OK?’ ‘I’ve survived on less.’ ‘Everyone on the investigation’s going to be feeling it.’ ‘I know.’ She still sounded flat, and I didn’t like it, because it wasn’t like her to let things get to her. I wanted to buoy her up. ‘But it’s what we do it for, isn’t it? A case like this.’ ‘Yes, you’re right. If we get a result that is.’ She stifled another yawn, apologised for it, and then she snapped back into something resembling her usual efficient tone, as if she’d suddenly realised how dispirited she sounded. ‘I was worried about you yesterday,’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘The press conference, Rachel Jenner out of control, and the whole country watching? Don’t be obtuse.’ I didn’t really want to answer that. ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘If I say I’m sure then I’m sure.’ ‘OK. Good. Sorry, I’m not fully awake yet I don’t think. I overslept. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can I give you a quick call back in a few minutes, when I’ve finished getting ready?’ ‘I’m on my way in already, I’m literally about to step out the door, so I’ll see you at the briefing.’ ‘OK – I’ll see you then. I’ll be more with it by then, I promise.’ We said our goodbyes, and they were affectionate enough, but I ended the call feeling a bit cheated, because the conversation hadn’t lifted my spirits the way I’d thought it would. At work our priority for the morning was to go and talk to the member of the fantasy role-play group who’d already given some difficulties to the pair of DCs who went to interview him. First thing in the morning checks had thrown up some previous on him, indecent exposure no less, meaning that he’d just shot straight to the top spot on our interview list. DCI Fraser stuck to her guns by insisting that she’d like to talk to him herself. ‘We’ll see this young chappie in his home I think, Jim,’ she said. ‘But let’s not book an appointment, eh? We’ll surprise him.’ It was a long time since I’d been accompanied to an interview by a senior officer, and I tried to fight off the thought that she wanted to keep an eye on me after the balls-up at the press conference. More likely, I hoped, she was living up to her reputation as somebody who liked to stay in touch with

the roots of her investigations. She asked Woodley to come along too. We took an unmarked pool car. I drove and Fraser studied the stereo, glasses halfway down her nose. Woodley sat in the back, but took the middle seat and leaned forward each time Fraser said anything. Fraser asked, ‘Did you see the email from Press Office this morning?’ ‘I did. Pretty brutal.’ ‘Indeed. I’m meeting DS Martyn about it at eleven and he’s not going to be a happy bunny.’ DS Martyn was the officer ultimately overseeing this case, and Fraser’s senior officer. He was never a happy bunny. I waited for her to say more, but she turned on the radio. ‘What do you like to listen to, Jim?’ she asked. ‘Five Live usually, boss,’ I said. ‘Or Radio Bristol.’ ‘Those are very pedestrian choices,’ she said. ‘How about a little culture? Have you ever heard of culture, DC Woodley?’ ‘I played the recorder at school,’ he said. I glanced in my rear-view mirror; he had a deadpan expression, hard to know if he was taking the piss. Fraser looked amused. She put on a classical music station, turned up the volume. ‘I would have had you down for a Radio Four listener, boss,’ I said. ‘No, no. There’s far too much danger of hearing one of our pals from Scotland Yard crucifying himself and the entire force on Radio Four. I like to avoid that if I possibly can.’ She leaned her head back on the headrest and when I glanced at her as we stopped at traffic lights, she had her eyes closed. We turned up at the address at 09.00. Our man lived in a basement flat, in a shabby street in Cotham. From the looks of it, the street was mostly student flats, which had been carved out of a terrace of tall flat-fronted Victorian buildings. The Bath stone facades had probably been attractive once, but were now dirty and cracked in places. Not a single building looked well looked after. Wheelie bins littered the pavements or were crammed into the tiny areas that fronted the street. Most of them were disgorging overstuffed black bin liners. In front of our man’s property, a bin for food waste had tipped over and deposited its rank contents on the threshold. ‘Not a proud household then,’ said Fraser, stepping carefully around the muck in a pair of little heels. We had to repeatedly press the buzzer to get an answer. Our man eventually buzzed us in through the communal door and we waited in the hallway for him to appear. Fraser flicked through the post that had been dumped on a communal table. Food delivery flyers littered the floor, and these, together with Fraser’s shoes and lipstick, were the only sources of colour in the drab space. The light was on a timer and clicked off just as he inched open the door to the basement. ‘Edward Fount?’ asked Fraser. He nodded. Fraser introduced us. We produced our badges and he squinted at each one in turn. He was a slight man, with very pale skin and hair so black that it must have come out of a bottle. It fell in greasy tendrils around his face and made him look feminine. He lived alone apparently. There were only three rooms: his bedroom, a corridor that was pretending to be a kitchen, and a room that must have been a bathroom if the smell coming from it was anything to go by. ‘They don’t like him,’ Fraser had told Woodley and me before we left. ‘The organisers of the fantasy meetings – the ones we’ve spoken to – are wary of this boy. He’s a new member, and they don’t know him well. And, on top of that, nobody saw him leave the woods on Sunday. Some of them

JIM<br />

I spoke to Emma before I left for work, a quick call because I’d missed her the night before.<br />

She answered her phone quickly – ‘Hey how are you?’ – but I could hear the drag of fatigue in her<br />

voice and she yawned generously.<br />

‘Good. You? Did you sleep well?’<br />

‘What do you reckon?’<br />

‘I reckon you were awake half the night like me.’<br />

‘I was.’<br />

‘Are you OK?’<br />

‘I’ve survived on less.’<br />

‘Everyone on the investigation’s going to be feeling it.’<br />

‘I know.’<br />

She still sounded flat, and I didn’t like it, because it wasn’t like her to let things get to her. I wanted<br />

to buoy her up.<br />

‘But it’s what we do it for, isn’t it? A case like this.’<br />

‘Yes, you’re right. If we get a result that is.’<br />

She stifled another yawn, apologised for it, and then she snapped back into something resembling<br />

her usual efficient tone, as if she’d suddenly realised how dispirited she sounded.<br />

‘I was worried about you yesterday,’ she said.<br />

‘What do you mean?’<br />

‘The press conference, Rachel Jenner out of control, and the whole country watching? Don’t be<br />

obtuse.’<br />

I didn’t really want to answer that.<br />

‘I’m fine.’<br />

‘Are you sure?’<br />

‘If I say I’m sure then I’m sure.’<br />

‘OK. Good. Sorry, I’m not fully awake yet I don’t think. I overslept. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can<br />

I give you a quick call back in a few minutes, when I’ve finished getting ready?’<br />

‘I’m on my way in already, I’m literally about to step out the door, so I’ll see you at the briefing.’<br />

‘OK – I’ll see you then. I’ll be more with it by then, I promise.’<br />

We said our goodbyes, and they were affectionate enough, but I ended the call feeling a bit cheated,<br />

because the conversation hadn’t lifted my spirits the way I’d thought it would.<br />

At work our priority for the morning was to go and talk to the member of the fantasy role-play group<br />

who’d already given some difficulties to the pair of DCs who went to interview him. First thing in the<br />

morning checks had thrown up some previous on him, indecent exposure no less, meaning that he’d<br />

just shot straight to the top spot on our interview list.<br />

DCI Fraser stuck to her guns by insisting that she’d like to talk to him herself. ‘We’ll see this young<br />

chappie in his home I think, Jim,’ she said. ‘But let’s not book an appointment, eh? We’ll surprise<br />

him.’<br />

It was a long time since I’d been accompanied to an interview by a senior officer, and I tried to<br />

fight off the thought that she wanted to keep an eye on me after the balls-up at the press conference.<br />

More likely, I hoped, she was living up to her reputation as somebody who liked to stay in touch with

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