into its five o'clock news. A curtain twitched to one side, a door opened and, stern-faced, they shuffled in.
The platform was rich in seniority and rank. Assistant Commissioner Harkin took centre stage, to his right the Detective Chief Superintendent in command of Homicide West. Seated at the far left, Karen Shields was the only woman, the only black face amongst all those sober-faced and sombre-suited white men.
Arguments that she'd be better occupied elsewhere had been brushed aside: Public Relations liked to get her on camera as often as they could.
In her absence, Lee Furness was busy liaising with Forensics and overseeing the local area inquiries, while Mike Ramsden had travelled north to interview Maddy Birch's mother. Alan Sheridan, her office manager, was accessing the Sex Offenders Register, searching through computerised records of similar crimes. Only Paul Denison was temporarily idle, twiddling his thumbs in the car park waiting for Karen while she was stuck, unhappily, behind a microphone.
Bald head shining a little in the lights, the Assistant Commissioner began his statement: 'We are, all of us, shocked and saddened by the death of a colleague in this tragic and senseless way.' Using his notes sparingly, he spoke of Maddy Birch as a resourceful and dedicated officer who had shown extreme bravery only recently in going up against an armed and dangerous criminal when she herself was unarmed. 'All of us within the Metropolitan Police Service,' he concluded, 'have a grim determination to bring Maddy's killer or killers to justice as soon as possible.'
Flash bulbs popped.
Harkin gave brief details of the circumstances of Maddy's death and went on to give assurances that the Homicide officers leading the investigation would be able to call on the support, as necessary, of other Operational Crime Units, as well as the facilities of the National Crime Intelligence Service. Karen, finally, was introduced as one of the officers who were, as he put it, dealing with the minute-by-minute, the day-to-day, the real nitty-gritty. No one, least of all Karen, had warned him that, because of its possible links to slavery, it might no longer be politically correct to say nitty-gritty.
The first question was hurled almost before Harkin had finished speaking: was it true that Maddy Birch had been sexually assaulted prior to her death?
'Until the post-mortem has been carried out by the Home Office pathologist,' he said, 'any such assumptions are purely speculation.' It was an answer guaranteed to increase such speculation tenfold.
Numerous questions followed about the exact nature of the attack, most of which were either deflected or referred back to the initial statement.
'Given the similarity of circumstances,' asked the reporter from CNN, 'do the police think there is a connection between this murder and that of the woman killed while out jogging in Hackney in February?'
They'd been expecting that one.
'Be assured,' Harkin responded, 'there will be the closest contact with officers conducting that investigation.'
He did think, then, there was a connection?
'As I say, we are exploring that avenue alongside several others.'
'Nobody has yet been charged with the Victoria Park murder, is that correct?'
That was correct.
'And all three men arrested in connection with the murder have since been released?'
That was so.
Harkin sighed. 'If we could concentrate our attentions on the tragic death of Detective Sergeant Birch…'
But the crime correspondent of the Guardian was already on his feet. 'The assistant commissioner alluded to the police operation in which Detective Sergeant Birch was involved, and which resulted in the death of a fellow officer and the fatal shooting by the police of William Grant – I wonder, can he tell us what progress is being made in the inquiry into those events presently being carried out by the Hertfordshire Force?'
'I'm afraid I don't see that has any relevance here.'
'But the inquiry is still ongoing?'
'You have my answer.' Harkin's face was set in stone.
'I think,' the Public Relations officer began, 'if there are no further questions…'
'I have a question for Detective Chief Inspector Shields.' Eyes turned towards the Home Affairs correspondent from the BBC. 'As a woman officer, does this case have a special resonance for you?'
Fuck, Karen said inside her head.
Twenty cameras flashed in her direction.
'As a police officer,' Karen said, 'all cases of this seriousness, especially where the deaths of fellow officers are involved, resonate equally.'
Off to one side, the PR officer nearly wet himself with joy.
'Gentlemen,' said Assistant Commissioner Harkin, rising to his feet. 'Ladies. Thank you for your time.'
Seeing Karen Shields approach across the car park in his rear-view mirror, Denison turned the key in the ignition.
'How did it go, ma'am?'
Karen slammed the car door closed. 'Stop ma'aming me and drive the fucking car.'
Not too well, then, Denison thought.
Karen buckled herself in and stared straight ahead. Hendon to Kentish Town, half an hour if they were lucky, three-quarters if not.
Vanessa's commanding officer was waiting for them in reception. 'PC Taylor's in my office. You can talk to her there.'
'Thank you.'
Vanessa jumped to her feet when the door opened. She was wearing her police uniform, the top button of her tunic fastened tight at her neck; there was a slight but unmistakable smell of perspiration in the room.
Awkwardly, Vanessa held out her hand and then, before Karen could respond, let it fall by her side.
Sitting, Karen introduced Denison and herself.
'Maddy Birch,' Karen said, 'you knew her. You've got some information, I believe.'
'Yes. As soon as I heard what had happened – I'm sorry, I still can't believe it – as soon as I heard, I went to my inspector here and asked to be put in touch.'
Karen nodded. 'I'd like to record this conversation. I take it you've no objection?'
'No, of course not.'
Denison placed the pocket recorder on the desk between them and switched it on.
'Very well, then, in your own time.'
Vanessa told them about Maddy's growing fears that she had been watched and followed; her feeling that someone had been inside her flat.
'She didn't report any of this?'
'No.'
'Do you know why?'
Vanessa wriggled a little in her seat. 'It wasn't as if she had any proof. I think she was worried she might not be believed. That people might think she was, you know, imagining things.'
'And you? What did you think?'
'Did I believe her?'
'Yes.'
'Not at first. Not if I'm to be honest, no. Ever since the Grant business, that young officer getting killed, it had really shaken her up. You could tell. I thought maybe it was a reaction to that. Nervous, you know. But then, when she said someone had broken into her flat, I believed her then.'
'And she didn't have any idea who this person – if it was one person – might have been?'
'No, not really'
'You don't seem sure.'
Vanessa fidgeted with her hair. 'Well, there was this one time we were in the pub and Maddy thought she
