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followed him to her desk, shadowing him like a watchful guard dog. Her hair was tied back in a businesslike way and she was dressed in a black trouser suit like a lawyer or company executive. Very professional looking.
    ‘Housewife is an outdated term,’ muttered Hurst. ‘And women don’t gossip any more than certain men do.’
    Irvine ignored her as usual, and Hurst turned her attention to Fry.
    ‘Is it true, then? About the medical reports?’
    ‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped Fry. ‘I’m not his doctor. I’m not his nurse. And I’m certainly not his mother. You’re asking the wrong person.’
    ‘His mother died,’ said Hurst quietly.
    ‘I know,’ said Fry. ‘Look – yes, I know.’
    She flapped her hands in despair and sat down at her desk, recognising a conversation that she wasn’t going come out of well. But Irvine decided to try again.
    ‘We just thought—’ he said. ‘Well, we knew you worked together, and you were quite close for a while. So we thought you’d have been able to find something out. That you’d have a bit of information we don’t. You could have asked somebody.’
    ‘Close?’ said Fry. ‘Were we? Close? ’
    ‘You’re more senior than us anyway,’ Hurst was saying. ‘The same rank as him. You could ask—’
    ‘And that means nothing either,’ said Fry. ‘Rank and all that. Nothing. Or else why would I be back here?’
    Irvine looked stubborn. ‘I just felt I had to speak up.’
    ‘Do me a favour,’ said Fry. ‘Next time you feel the need to speak up, do it with your mouth shut.’
    Irvine and Hurst exchanged glances and reluctantly went back to work. Fry stared across the CID room thoughtfully, until Gavin Murfin caught her eye. He was chewing, slowly extracting the maximum satisfaction from whatever he was eating.
    Murfin paused, and swallowed. Then, very deliberately, he gave Fry a long, slow wink.
    Well, thanks a lot, Gavin. Always ready to give her just what she needed – a bit of support from the most experienced member of the team.
    Fry left the room and walked up the corridor to the top of the stairs, where a large window looked out over the forecourt of the building towards the east stand of Edendale football ground. She watched Luke Irvine drive out through the barrier in the CID pool car and turn on to West Street. The rain was coming down heavily, and she saw him turn on the sidelights to be safe in poor visibility.
    This rain had started suddenly after a long dry spell. For months, Fry remembered the water companies talking about a drought. Dry weather through the previous autumn, winter and spring had reduced the levels of their reservoirs dramatically, and the use of hosepipes had been banned. No amount of rain during the summer would make any difference, they said. It didn’t soak into the ground, but evaporated in the warmer air. The drought would last until next winter at least.
    Fry shook her head. In Derbyshire, nature had different ideas. The talk of droughts had lulled everyone into the idea that it would stay dry for ever. Had there been a warning on the weather forecasts? Possibly. But who took any notice of those? No one had since Michael Fish dismissed rumours of a hurricane, just before the Great Storm of 1987 killed eighteen people and ripped up thousands of trees across the south-east of England.
    She’d seen it happen, all the predictable consequences. Right across the Peak District, car windscreens had become filmed over with dust and grease during the dry weather, encrusted with the debris of dead insects. When the heavens opened and the sky emptied its deluge on to the landscape, wipers had screeched into action, their rubber blades smearing thousands of windscreens into instant impenetrability. Tides of filth ran down the glass, and rain splattered into thick gobbets. Visibility fell to zero.
    The emergency call centres had started to be deluged too, as drivers panicked, swerved, braked, and the roads were blocked by