A tall, heavily built woman exits the vehicle to approach me. She has shoulder-length curly black hair framing a round face with rosy cheeks. She has the look of an archetypal farmer’s wife. “Briony Chaplin?” she asks. I nod. “I’m Zoe McManus, I believe you’re expecting me.” She shows me her warrant card then holds out her hand in introduction. Her grip is firm and confident.
I try to match it, as a first step in reclaiming my independence. “This is Jenny Douglas,” I say, pointing to my friend.
“Let’s make a start. Can you clip the door open, please? The forensic team will follow us up once they’ve assembled their equipment.”
Jenny and I lead the way upstairs but before we reach my flat, Zoe stops us.
“I’d like you to put these on.” She hands us each a pair of disposable plastic bootie
