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There was applause from the studio audience. She stared at them – hundreds of people all here to see her .
    Then it hit her, beneath her ribs in a spot so sore it hurt right up to her throat.
    It was true. She had wanted to be completely by herself, to enjoy the solitude, just as Jason McBride did for a few months each year. Technically, she had failed on every level. And Leah clearly didn’t understand. Whether live on air being watched by millions, or in the company of just one other person, Carrie Kent was always alone.

AUTUMN 2008
    ‘What do you mean . . . no?’ It came out as a squeak, she was so unused to being refused. The phone was hot against her ear. Sun cut across her right cheek, magnified by the glass. The engine was ticking idly, her foot poised to hit the accelerator, but he’d said no . It appeared she wasn’t going anywhere.
    ‘Look, Dennis . . .’ God, she hated that name. It reminded her of cardigans and golf. ‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ she tried. ‘This has been arranged for over a week. I have a film crew on standby. I have slots to be filled. A show to produce.’ Carrie felt the beginnings of a sweat break out. This family were box-office news at the moment. She had to see them. Wait another couple of days and it would all be over. Or, worse, someone else would get to them first.
    ‘Listen, Dennis darling, unless you can conveniently arrange another stabbing for me by ten thirty tomorrow then I’m going to have to find myself another friendly det—’
    Grim laughter drowned the line. Then there was silence. ‘Just kidding.’
    A pause. ‘What?’ She jammed her foot on the accelerator and, before she snapped the phone shut and threw it on to the passenger seat, she called him a stupid fuck.
    The car was hot and airless, even though it was a cool day. Carrie sat in the front while DCI Dennis Masters drove. He’d put on the siren because he knew she loved it. Another detective sat in the back with his knees pressed into Carrie’s spine.
    She opened the window and leant her arm out, enjoying the wind as they pushed through the tide of cars that bumped up on to kerbs and panicked on to the central reservation as they approached.
    ‘Makes me laugh,’ she said, unwilling to admit that she’d felt helpless when Dennis had said the meeting was off. ‘Such a thrill, all these people getting out of our way.’ She spent the rest of the journey pondering how she could achieve this effect with the rest of her life, but, just before they arrived, she came to the conclusion that she already had.
    ‘This is it,’ Dennis said grimly. He peered beneath the sun visor, looking at the row of council houses. He pulled the keys from the ignition and glanced at Carrie. ‘Whatever you may think, Ms Kent, these people have just lost their only son. Be—’
    ‘I will be nice. I’m not completely without feeling.’ Carrie pulled a sympathetic face and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Deep in her chest, she felt something – was it sympathy? she wondered – as she fleetingly tried to put herself in the position of the bereft mother sitting within those grim walls. She shook her head. It was too awful to contemplate. ‘OK. Let’s get this over with.’
    Without these meetings, the exploration into the homes and lives of her victims, as Carrie called them, Reality Check wouldn’t be the show it was. It was infamous for its unforgiving style of reporting – a journalistic gash into lives ripped apart by tragedy. The production team also prided itself on the aftercare and counselling offered, as well as the usefulness of the police hotline that was always onscreen to offset the gawping at misery. Carrie had once described her show as a car crash. People just couldn’t help but stare.
    ‘Is he coming in with us?’ Carrie asked. She’d not seen this young detective before. Carrie had what she called a special arrangement with the Met. ‘Don’t ask,’ she’d urged Leah when the