Constance Lamb stood opposite Hackney police station, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath freezing in the cold November air. She hadn’t been told much about why she’d been summoned: another youth in trouble, eighteen years old, burglary, they’d said and she’d considered staying home and letting the job pass to the next in line. But then she’d heard her own voice, detached, some distance away, agreeing to take this one, even as her outstretched hand drew back the curtain and she saw the frost glistening on the pavement outside.

Cross with herself, confused as to the precise mechanism by which her mouth had said yes when her brain had said no, she had zipped up her boots, thrown on her thick coat, turned off the oven – her dinner would have to wait – and walked briskly to her destination. Except now she hesitated, on the threshold, taking a moment to gather her strength. Not her physical strength; it was less than half a mile’s walk from her flat, although she’d moved quickly to keep warm, tucking her scarf in tight, her hands thrust deep into her pockets, and she was hardly bothered by the distance.

No, it was inner strength, resolve, determination that was required on these occasions; assimilating information calmly, efficiently and from disparate sources, the need to act professionally, the requirement to gain and maintain the trust of a total stranger and the necessity to make the right decision about next steps, when so much depended on it.

She made a tunnel with her mouth and blew out three short breaths, tipping her head back and watching the white plumes stretch forwards and up. Then she crossed the road and went inside.

The policewoman on duty – uniform too tight, hair scraped back in a high ponytail – nodded to Constance and waved her off down the corridor.

‘Number five,’ she said.

‘I don’t have any details yet,’ Constance called out, over her shoulder.

‘You do now.’

Constance turned at Chief Inspector Dawson’s voice. He was thinner than the last time they had met. Was it a deliberate health drive or had he been unwell? His eyes were fine points of light, his cheeks were sunken and his hair, cut short at the sides, was greyer than she remembered. And it had only been a matter of weeks.

He handed her a wedge of papers and accompanied her to the interview room. Constance sat down without removing her coat, and her eyes skimmed over them, the words ‘murder’ and ‘robbery’ shouting out to her from the page, before settling on the name of the victim.

‘They told me burglary,’ she said, knowing, as she spoke that her complaint was meaningless.

So what if she’d expected some trumped-up petty theft, which would occupy her for half an hour? She was here now and she would have taken the murder charge anyway; she always did.

Dawson shrugged and she noticed him wincing at the involuntary movement; the tiniest twitch of one corner of his mouth giving him away.

‘What’s the connection? Between my client and the victim?’ Constance asked.

‘That’s what I’m hoping he’s going to tell us.’

‘I mean, what evidence have you got?’

Dawson sat back and his eyes found hers. ‘We’ve got fingerprints, his prints in her apartment.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We’ll have the post-mortem results shortly.’

‘What makes you think she was murdered? Two days ago, you thought it was natural causes. I saw the headline. Eminent psychiatrist slips away in her sleep.’

‘You noticed it was her.’ Dawson’s tone was conciliatory.

‘Elizabeth Sullivan. There can’t be two of them, both dying on the same day, on the same street. I do keep up.’

Dawson smiled. ‘That’s why we have post-mortems, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘And the burglary?’

‘Her handbag was stolen. There may be other items too. We’ve yet to locate any family who can verify what’s missing.’

‘You’ve found the bag since?’

‘Not yet.’

‘All right. And my client – Jaden Dodds?’

‘We picked him up this afternoon. Like I said, his prints match. He’s a neighbour.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘But no signs of violence.’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Was the news report wrong then?’ Constance suddenly felt tired and hungry and conscious that her need for sleep and food were unlikely to be satisfied for some time.

‘I can’t disclose anything. But I’ll let you know what I can, when I can.’ Dawson stood up.

Constance tutted. This was useless.

‘Can I see Jaden now, please?’ she said.

‘Sure. I’ll have him brought in.’