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out of the girl.’ Her face was animated as she walked about the office, her fingers trailing lightly over his desk.
    ‘Who’s the other woman?’ she had teased him, picking up the loose photograph propped up against the framed picture of her and the kids.
    ‘A victim,’ Ray had replied, taking the photo gently from Mags and replacing it on his desk. ‘She was stabbed seventeen times by her boyfriend because she was late getting the tea on.’
    If Mags was shocked, she didn’t show it. ‘You don’t keep it in the file?’
    ‘I like to have it where I can see it,’ Ray said. ‘Where I can’t forget what I’m doing, why I’m working these hours, who it’s all for.’ She had nodded at that. She understood him better than he realised, sometimes.
    ‘But not next to our photograph. Please, Ray.’ She had reached out a hand to take the photo again, looking around the office for somewhere more suitable. Her eyes settled on the redundant corkboard at the back of the room and, taking a drawing pin from the pot on his desk, she had fixed the picture of the smiling dead woman decisively in the middle of the board.
    And there it stayed.
    The smiling woman’s boyfriend had long since been charged with murder, and a steady succession of victims had taken her place. The old man beaten black and blue by teenage muggers; the four women sexually assaulted by a taxi driver; and now Jacob, beaming in his school uniform. All of them relying on Ray. He scanned the notes he had made in his daybook the night before, preparing for this morning’s briefing. They didn’t have a lot to go on. As his computer beeped to tell him it had finally booted up, Ray mentally shook himself. They might not have a long list of leads, but there was still work to be done.
     
    Shortly before ten o’clock, Stumpy and his team trooped through the door into Ray’s office. Stumpy and Dave Hillsdon took up residence in two of the low chairs grouped around the coffee table, while the others stood at the back of the room, or leaned against the wall. The third chair had been left empty in an unspoken nod to chivalry, and Ray was amused to see that Kate ignored the offering and joined Malcolm Johnson to stand at the back. Their numbers had been temporarily boosted by two officers on loan from shift, looking uncomfortable in hastily borrowed suits, and PC Phil Crocker from the Collision Investigation Unit.
    ‘Good morning, everyone,’ Ray said. ‘I won’t keep you long. I’d like to introduce Brian Walton from Party One, and Pat Bryce from Party Three. It’s good to have you lads, and there’s plenty to do, so just muck in.’ Brian and Pat nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Okay,’ Ray continued. ‘The purpose of this briefing is to revisit what we know about the Fishponds hit-and-run, and where we go next. As you can imagine, the chief is all over this one like a rash.’ He looked at his notes, although he knew the contents by heart. ‘At 1628 on Monday, 26 November 999 operators picked up a call from a woman living in Enfield Avenue. She had heard a loud bang, and then a scream. By the time she got outside, it was all over, and Jacob’s mother was crouching over him in the road. The ambulance response time was six minutes, and Jacob was pronounced dead at the scene.’
    Ray paused for a moment, to let the gravity of the investigation sink in. He glanced at Kate, but her expression was neutral, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or saddened that she had managed to build her defences so successfully. She wasn’t the only one apparently devoid of emotion. A stranger scanning the room might assume the police couldn’t care less about the death of this little boy, when Ray knew it had touched them all. He continued with the briefing.
    ‘Jacob turned five last month, soon after starting school at St Mary’s, in Beckett Street. On the day of the hit-and-run, Jacob had been at an after-school club, while his mum was working. Her statement says