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was growing. She was struggling to breathe through her tears.
    Adam studied her, folded his arms. He knew they would learn nothing more from Yvonne Freedman tonight. ‘I’ll leave you now,’ he said quietly, getting up from his chair. Like most men, despite years of experience, he’d never grown competent at handling a woman’s crying. Besides, tears were an unassailable defence against questioning.
    He softened his voice, but laced it with a warning. ‘I will need to speak to you again though, and soon. Probably tomorrow morning. For now, just one more thing.’
    Adam paused, turned to Alex. Given what they knew about Freedman’s liaison with a teenage prostitute, testing the relationship between father and daughter was important.
    He said as gently as he could, ‘I know he was your dad, but were you particularly close?’
    Yvonne Freedman looked up, her mouth falling open, but all that emerged was a whimper. WPC Masters placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Alex opened her arms theatrically and shook her head. ‘Close?’ she asked contemptuously. ‘How close can you get to someone you never see?’
    Adam didn’t answer, took a couple of steps towards the door. Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘Where did your dad do his work? Did he have a study?’
    ‘Out there,’ Alex said sullenly, pointing to the hallway. ‘By the kitchen.’
    ‘Thanks,’ replied Adam. ‘You should both try to get some sleep. A police doctor will help you if you need a sleeping tablet.’
    He held her look. Alex shrugged and mumbled something under her breath.
    ‘I’m sorry?’ asked Adam, taking a step towards her.
    ‘I said arsehole,’ she spat, her dark eyes suddenly wide. ‘He was an arsehole. My father. An absolute arsehole. OK?’
    10.20. They were on air in five minutes. Dan had to get ready for the bulletin, even if he had nothing to say. Deadlines don’t negotiate.
    Adam would call, he knew it. But the detective was leaving it damned late.
    Dan squeezed the moulded plastic tube into his left ear, tucked into the back of his shirt the cable that connected it to the radio receiver on his belt. The link crackled, then buzzed.
    ‘Testing the line to Dan at the outside broadcast,’ came the harassed voice of the director. ‘This is Emma in the Wessex Tonight broadcast gallery in Plymouth. Oh, for God’s sake, where are you OB?!’
    Dan gave a thumbs-up to the camera. ‘Hearing you loud and clear,’ he said, taking the microphone Nigel was proffering.
    There was a groan of relief. ‘About time! You’re top of the bulletin and we’re on air in just under five minutes. Standby. The next time we talk to you it’ll be for real.’
    Dan felt the adrenaline run, tingling his body and quickening his breath. Live broadcasting, always the most exhilarating part of his job, but by far the most dangerous too. Get it right, and you were admired and respected as cool, composed and authoritative, the man who brought the big news to the hundreds of thousands watching and waiting, hanging on your words of wisdom. But get it wrong, and it was a very public humiliation.
    He wondered what the hell he was going to say. All he knew was the thinnest of information from that rushed conversation with Adam. Freedman was dead, suicide, linked to some sex scandal and blackmail. He had no details and no confirmation. What if there’d been a misunderstanding?
    It happened. The fire of breaking news could shoot off a thousand sparks of misinformation.
    You learn that fast as a hack. First reports were often garbled. In the early minutes of a story, often the only certainty was uncertainty.
    What if Freedman was watching and walked out of the house, very much alive, to demand to know what on earth Dan was talking about?
    He didn’t like the thought of the consequences. Zero credibility and a laughing stock would be the best possible outcome. Unemployment was more likely. Lizzie wasn’t a forgiving editor, far from it. He glared at his