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and nodded. ‘We’re on Rig.’
    Of course you are
. A few years back, it had been MySpace. That had been overtaken by Facebook. Then RigMarole had come along with an even more user-friendly front end, with the added bonus of free downloadable voice recognition software. You didn’t even have to be able to type now to access a global community of like-minded peers and well-camouflaged predators. Ambrose tried to keep tabs on his own kids and their online circles, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Do you happen to know Jennifer’s password? It would really help us if we could access her profile and messages as quickly as possible.’
    Claire gave a quick sideways look at her mother, as if she had secrets of her own she didn’t want to reveal. ‘We had this kind of code. So nobody could guess. Her password was my initials, plus the last six digits of my mobile. Like, CLD435767.’
    Ambrose keyed the code into his mobile. ‘That’s amazingly helpful, Claire. I’m not going to bother you much longer, but I need to ask you: did Jennifer ever talk about anybody she was scared of? Anybody she felt threatened by? It could be an adult, it could be somebody at school, a neighbour. Anybody at all.’
    Claire shook her head, her face crumpling in misery again. ‘She never said anything like that.’ Her voice was piteous, her expression desolate. ‘Everybody liked Jennifer. Why would anybody want to kill her?’
     
     
     
CHAPTER 4
     
     
    Carol couldn’t believe how quickly John Brandon’s presence had been erased from his former office. His décor had been muted and unobtrusive, a single family photograph and an elaborate coffee machine the only real clues to the man himself. James Blake was clearly cut from a different cloth. Leather armchairs, an antique desk and wooden filing cabinets provided a faux country house feel. The walls were hung with unmissable pointers to Blake’s success - his framed degree certificate from Exeter, photographs of him with two prime ministers, the Prince of Wales, a scatter of home secretaries and minor celebrities. Carol wasn’t sure whether this was vanity or a warning shot across the bows of Blake’s visitors. She’d reserve judgement till she knew him better.
    Blake, looking buffed and spruce in his dress uniform, waved Carol to one of the tub chairs in front of his desk. Unlike Brandon, he didn’t offer tea or coffee. Or pleasantries, it turned out. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Carol,’ he said.
    So that was how it was going to be. No fake building of bridges, no pretence at common ground between them. It was evident to Carol that the use of her name wasn’t the first step on the road to camaraderie, just a firm attempt at diminishing her by refusing to acknowledge her rank. ‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’ She resisted the impulse to cross her arms and legs, choosing instead to mirror the openness of his pose. Some things had rubbed off from all those years of hanging around with Tony.
    ‘I’ve looked at your record. You’re a brilliant police officer, Carol. And you’ve built a first-class team around you.’ He paused, expectant.
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    ‘And therein lies the problem.’ Blake’s mouth turned up in a smile that indicated how pleased he was at his own cleverness.
    ‘We’ve never viewed our success as a problem,’ Carol said, knowing that wasn’t quite the response he’d been looking for.
    ‘I understand the terms of engagement for your team are that you investigate major crime on our patch that doesn’t come under the remit of any of the national squads?’
    Carol nodded. ‘That’s right.’
    ‘But when you’re between major crimes, you investigate cold cases?’ He couldn’t hide his disdain.
    ‘We do. And we’ve had some notable successes there too.’
    ‘I don’t dispute that, Carol. What I dispute is whether your talents are best deployed on cold cases.’
    ‘Cold cases are important. We speak for the dead. We