Another sip of water.

“A preliminary medical examination has been conducted and Dr Alan Courts, the Home Office pathologist, will conduct the post-mortem later tonight at Pinderfields Hospital.”

People checking spelling, glances at their neighbour’s notes.

“At this stage in the investigation that is all the information I am able to give you. However, on behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal for any member of the public who might have any information to please contact your nearest police station.

“We would particularly like to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch between midnight Friday and 6 AM this morning and who saw anything at all, particularly any parked vehicles. We have also set up a hot-line so members of the public can telephone the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence. Thank you gentlemen.”

Oldman stood, his hands already up in the face of a barrage of questions and flashes. He shook his head slowly from side to side, mouthing apologies he didn’t mean, excuses he couldn’t use, trapped like King fucking Kong on top of the Empire State.

I watched him, watched his eyes search the room, my heart pounding, my stomach aching, reading those eyes:

SEE ME NOW.

A shove in the shoulder, smoke in my face. “Glad you could join us, Scoop. Boss wants to see you a.s.a.p.”

Face to face with the slicked-back ratface of my fucking nightmares, Jack fucking Whitehead; whisky on his breath, a smile on his chops.

The Pack pushing past us, running for their phones and their cars, cursing the timing.

Jack fucking Whitehead, giving me the big wink, a mock punch to the jaw. “Early bird and all that.”