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He’s done okay for himself considering .’
    ‘Considering?’
    ‘To be honest, I thought he’d be locked up by now. His wife must have had some hold on him. I can just about remember her. She was good-looking but nothing special.’
    Perry drove towards the centre of Burslem and, a few minutes later, turned off Moorland Road and on to a small industrial site. There were seventeen units on the map by the entrance; they were after number five. Taylor Made Pottery Factory was the middle unit of a block of nine.
    Perry squeezed his car into a space opposite the frontage. They approached the door to the reception area with caution over slippery tarmac. As they drew nearer, a woman rushed towards them from inside the building. Allie pressed her warrant card up against the glass and they were let in.
    ‘I couldn’t believe it when Derek told us what had happened,’ the woman said, shaking a head of blonde-grey curls.
    ‘Did you know him well, Mrs . . . ?’ asked Allie.
    ‘Campbell – Doris Campbell. Yes, I’ve been here since the business started. Mickey was like a son to me, his brother too. Martin is in a terrible state.’ She burst into tears.
    Once she’d composed herself, they followed her through the office and down a narrow corridor. Allie glanced at the certificates on the wall – Outstanding Business Award 2008, The Sentinel Business Awards runner-up for small businesses, certificates of training courses taken. An award for pottery design of the year 2013.
    ‘He was well liked, then?’
    Doris turned to them slightly, a fond smile on her face. ‘Yes, he had such a warm personality, and always the joker. Never unkindly, mind. He’s going to be missed by so many people.’
    The door at the end of the corridor led them into a large warehouse, its silence immediate. Allie tried to imagine how it would be normally: machinery whirring, kilns firing, bells on machines ringing, drowning out any chances of hearing a radio piped through in the background.
    Today a group of people with heavy hearts sat around. Four women and three men huddled around a coffee machine. Two men stood over by a window deep in conversation. A larger group were sitting around three settees laid out at the far end of the room, next to a row of kitchen units and a drinks machine.
    ‘We stopped production as soon as we heard,’ a voice behind them said.
    They turned to see a man with the aging features of Mickey Taylor, the same shock of auburn hair. His cheeks were red, eyes swollen. A younger man stood behind him: Allie assumed that this was Mickey’s brother, of whom Doris had spoken so fondly.
    ‘Derek Taylor, Mickey’s father,’ he told them. ‘This is my son, Martin .’
    ‘We’re so sorry for your loss,’ Perry told him.
    ‘It’s just a job to you.’
    ‘I know it’s hard to deal with, but –’
    ‘I’m sick of waiting around here while his killer is on the loose. You should be chasing him down, not questioning the people he worked with.’
    ‘Martin.’ Doris laid a hand on Martin’s arm, but he shrugged it off.
    ‘You’ve every right to feel angry, we get that,’ Allie spoke firmly. ‘But,’ she looked at him for a moment, needing to gain his trust, ‘please, any tiny detail you may remember could help us find the person responsible.’
    ‘I need some fresh air.’ Martin walked off.
    Perry stopped Doris from going after him. ‘Give him some space,’ he said. ‘He’ll talk when he’s ready.’
    ‘Sorry about that.’ Derek flinched as a door slammed. ‘I lost his mother only last year and now, well,’ he paused, looking away for a moment, ‘I can’t believe this has happened too. Mickey was a great support to us both.’
    ‘How was business, Mr Taylor?’ she asked, changing the subject in the hope of distracting the obviously upset man.
    ‘It was good. Mickey’s life couldn’t have been better. Well, perhaps a little less stress once in a while, but with orders piling in, having to recruit