Her memory of it would later prove stuttering, lacking in fluidity. A series of blurred snapshots soundtracked by occasional hissed blasts of a mental audiotape.
Haring up the station entrance steps, the sheet of paper fluttering in her hand. Over at the front desk, Sergeant Brown's initial expression of surprise turning to one of exploding rage, his voice booming out after her as she swept through the swing doors into the main corridor.
Shields, you're not allowed through there anymore! For Christ's sake, come back here, Shields!
Hurtling then up the stairs to the first floor - heaving herself up those steps two at a time, uniformed bodies lurching out of the way, backs arched against the hand rail to allow her room to pass. A chorus of tuts and curses trailing in her wake.
What the hell's going on, Shields?
Jesus Christ, almost knocked me over there!
Hey Shields, what you bloody up to?
In then through the door of the CID room, the expression on Bridcutt's face as he peered up from his Macintosh a mixture of utter shock and the deepest of intrigue.
Diane, what's---?
His voice fading behind her as she blasted through into the glass-walled office. Gooch already on his feet, his lips sneered in frantic motion.
She wasn't listening though. Just wasn't listening.
Now the slam of her palm on the desk, the sheet of paper anchored beneath.
Written by Billy Pitman's dead mother. Look at those e's , Gooch. Just look at those e's.
And moments later the image she would recall most of all - that returned gaze, its thick contrasting mesh of emotions.
Defeat.
Respect.
Shame.
Awe.
*
It was his father who first became aware of it.
"Hear that noise?" he frowned from the kitchen table.
Billy was over at the sink rattling their lunch plates into the ever-deepening clutter of pots and pans. Bacon and fried mashed potatoes, his favourite. Was never more content than when his stomach was so warm and greasy and full.
But yes, now he could hear it too - a faint, distant siren squeal.
"More than one," his father stated. Calm, matter-of-fact, as if it was nothing of any great significance.
And for a few moments Billy wanted to believe it too. That all those approaching sirens were headed somewhere else. For someone else. A pair of smashed up cars out on the backroads. A fire in some neighbouring farmer's barn. A gang of drug dealing no-gooders being chased from the county.
His father had meanwhile slouched out of the kitchen door, Queenie beside him - her ears pricked, alert. Billy scurried out to join them, the noise by now a deafening incoming wave.
"What do you think it is, dad?"
He watched as his father sucked down a deep breath, let it out long and slow. Not a gesture of fear or apprehension, more a long-awaited sigh of relief.
"The moment's come, Billy. Was always going to come."
And finally Billy understood. He could feel his heart begin to thud, his breath come more quickly. Inside his stomach, the warm mush of his lunch had now turned icy cold.
"All that stuff with the ID parade, that poor Indian chap - we were just putting off the inevitable, son, that was all."
"Run, dad!" Billy found himself whispering. "Just run! You've got to run, okay!"
His father turned him a rare smile. "Run where exactly, Billy? Run where?" He gestured a hand out before him. "These fields here - they're all I've ever known."
But it wasn't just the lack of an obvious destination which was the problem. A pair of patrol cars could now be seen swerving through the main entrance below. Glancing down towards the trail gate to their left, Billy meanwhile noted half a dozen black specks amongst the usual white scatter of the sheep - officers positioning themselves to cut off any escape attempt. The entire farm was now surrounded it seemed.
"It's better this way, son, don't you see? Better for everyone. Most of all, better for you."
Billy felt a palm rest itself on his shoulder.
"Listen, you're going to be okay, you hear? The vicar and his wife'll keep an eye on you, make sure everything's alright. First thing you need to ask them to help you with is selling this place. Don't worry about getting the right price. Just get it sold fast."
Billy's vision was fuzzy through his tears, his voice a boyish croak. "But farming sheep's all I know how to do."
"I know son, I know. But you can't stay here, okay. Tomorrow morning, my name's going to be on the front page of every damn newspaper. You need to go far away, somewhere no-one'll have heard of John Pitman. Australia, I'm thinking. New Zealand. Sheep farming's still a big thing in those places, not the dying art it is here in England."
Australia, reflected Billy. New Zealand. But didn't you have to dig a hole right through the centre of the Earth to reach those places?
"An upbringing like you've had," his father continued, "you'll find a job in the blink of an eye. Make a more than nice living for yourself." There was a second downturned smile. "Doesn't rain half as much in those places either."
A little further down the track the two patrol cars had drawn to a halt. From the passenger side of one of the vehicles now emerged the familiar, bear-like figure of Inspector Gooch.
"But what about us, dad? How will we---?"
"Oh, we'll keep in touch son, don't you worry about that. You'll find someone who'll write down all the things you want to say to me and who can read the letters I send to you. There are aeroplanes as quick as lightning now - our letters to each other won't take more than a few days to arrive."
There was a question which couldn't be written down though. One too important to be communicated through scribbled curves of ink, but which had to be spoken out loud. The question which had been gurgling around his head ever since the visit of Black Eye Guy the previous Saturday.
"You pushed her, didn't you?"
The hand now slithered off his shoulder. His father's gaze was fearful, his mouth grappling to find words which wouldn't come.
"Mum. It was you who made her fall down those stairs, wasn't it?"
Finally, there was a flash of emotion, his father's shoulders juddering into a sob, his vocal chords stretched taut and high.
"Yes. Yes, it was. She said she was going to leave me. I... I just got caught in the moment. I didn't mean to Billy, you've got to believe me. It... it wasn't something I'd planned."
But there was no chance to discuss it further. Gooch was now just a few yards in front of them, a uniformed officer by his side.
"John Pitman," the inspector called, his voice loud enough to echo faintly around the neighbouring hillsides. "I'm here to arrest you for the murders of Kirsty Hollister and Joanne Renshaw."
The uniformed officer then stepped forward, indicated that Billy's father should turn around while he clipped on the handcuffs. As the inspector read out his father's rights, Billy slumped to the ground. His knees were clamped under his chin, a stroking hand attempting to hush Queenie's sad, soft whimpers.
"You have to forgive me, Billy," his father called. "Please son, I'm begging you. Find a little room in your heart to forgive me."
*
Bridcutt called round late afternoon, his silhouetted form there in the opened doorway notable for the thickly shaped bottle he was holding in one hand.
"Not much of an expert in such things," he admitted with a smile, "but if a day like today isn't a bottle of bubbly day, then when the hell is?" He nodded down at the bottle. "Okay, okay - not the priciest one I saw, but not the cheapest either. Should be half decent at least." He waited expectantly for a reaction. "So, what do you say?"
Shields reflected for a moment before answering. "Two women died. An innocent man committed suicide and as a consequence his lover too. There's nothing at all to celebrate, Jonah." She turned back into the hallway. "I'm not against the idea of getting a little drunk though."
"Deal done then."
As he passed the frantic electronic beeps which were blasting out from the opened living room door, Bridcutt popped his head briefly inside.
"Hi there, pal!"
He then followed Shields through into the kitchen.
"Just the one heroic spaceship pilot desperately defending we earthlings from alien tyranny today?"
"Lee's in punishment," she explained. "No TV or video games for a week. Just Roald Dahl for company."
Bridcutt gave a theatrical wince. "Ouch! What did he do? Swear at his teacher?"
"Not far off." She turned him a smile. "Strange thing is, actually forcing him to read a book for the first time in his life seems to have worked. Says he wants to go to the library and get some others."
"Blimey! Spaceship pilot to bookworm in one foul swoop."
She opened up what she referred to as the glassware cupboard even if in reality it mostly contained a thick clutter of non-categorised non-glassware.
"Don't possess champagne flutes," she warned him. "Normal white wine glasses will have to do."
Obviously recalling her visit to his flat the previous Thursday - the splash of whisky he'd served her - he flashed her a smile. "Fine by me. Better than a bloody mug."
A few seconds later they were seated opposite each other at the table, the cork popped and their glasses filled with fizzing yellowy liquid. Smiling affectionately, Bridcutt clinked his glass to hers.
"To Diane Shields, the world's greatest detective."
Returning the smile, she gave a clink back.
"To Jonah Bridcutt, the world's second greatest detective."
She downed her glass in one, balled a fist to muffle the subsequent inevitable burp. Poured herself another.
"Well, how'd it all go then?" she asked.
"Surprisingly smoothly. As soon as we pointed out the exact same nick in the e's of both the letter and the poem, he just asked that we leave the lad alone and confessed right up. Admitted to his wife's death too."
"Christ."
Shields pictured that humble gravestone from earlier that day. Promised herself she'd visit it again some time.
"Got the feeling he was relieved," Bridcutt continued. "You know, that there's no possibility of it happening again."
Taking a first sip, he swilled the champagne around his mouth for a few moments, frowned in reflection.
"A velvety texture with fruity undertones of... of plums and.... dried figs."
Shields grabbed the bottle, squinted her eyes in examination. Just as she suspected: the exact same words which were written on the label.
"It's a hell of a fool who thinks they can fool me."
Bridcutt nodded, impressed. "Good line. I'll have to try and remember it."
"When he saw you," Shields then enquired, "did he say anything about that little visit of yours on Saturday?"
"Just sort of glared. Asked me where blondie was. Think he meant you."
"Jesus, must have spotted me when I picked you up."
Had he known she'd been prowling around that same morning too, she wondered? The thought made her shudder.
"How'd that sod Gooch take it all?"
"Oh, a little subdued, let's say. Still trying to get his head around things. DCS Rogers came up to deal with the media scrum outside in the car park."
"That bastard."
Bridcutt looked at her, confused.
"Was part of my hearing committee," she explained.
There was a nod. "Anyway, word is there's going to be some sort of official inquiry. Ask me, the powers that be'll convince Gooch to take early retirement."
"Good riddance."
Bridcutt clinked his glass once more to hers.
"Good riddance indeed."
As he took another sip, he appeared to suddenly recall something.
"Christ, I almost forgot to ask - how'd your job interview go this morning?"
And so as with Jessica earlier, Shields was obliged to spend the next few minutes recounting the bizarre but on many levels entirely predictable denouement to her morning job hunt. Rather than a matter of hours, with all that had transpired afterwards it now seemed weeks ago.
"A check-out girl," murmured Bridcutt. "Just like Gooch said that morning Joanne was first reported missing."
"Oh yea, he'll just love it when he finds out." She scrunched out a bitter smirk. "Might even take his mind off his role in the death of Shivay Gupta for a while."
"A check-out girl," repeated Bridcutt. "I mean, no disrespect to other check-out girls - none at all - but you've got so much more to offer the people of Branstead than just telling them how much their groceries have come to." He hunched himself forward in his seat. "Given all that's happened today, you really ought to launch an appeal. They'd be absolute damn idiots not to give you your badge back. Without you there'd still be a serial killer out there roaming those hills, for Christ's sake!"
Shields poured herself another glass, contemplated this for a moment. Finally shook her head.
"No, that ship has sailed, Jonah. Chief Constable Grayson, Chief Super Rogers - they both made their opinions of me abundantly clear last Thursday."
But the problem wasn't only them, she realised, but partially also herself. Had always had a problem with authority, she guessed. Just wasn't the sort to passively follow orders that made little sense to her. As the case eleven days earlier, was simply unable to keep that damn gob of hers shut when her passions were sufficiently inflamed.
She hoped the whole check-out girl thing would just be temporary. A punctuation mark, that was all - a breath-pausing comma in the ongoing light-and-shade poem of her life. She sensed there was something, a seed of an idea beginning to form in her head.
After swigging down the remainder of the champagne in her glass, she propped her fists onto the table, slid back her chair, got to her feet.
"Well thanks for passing by, Jonah. And thanks for the bubbly." She smiled down at him. "Am feeling a bit lighter now, yes. Really ought to start thinking about the boys' tea now though."
The returned gaze was serious, intense.
"Sit back down, Diane. Please, just for a moment. I... There's something we need to discuss, okay."
And yes, she'd sort of known that this would be coming, had hoped to avoid it.
She dutifully slumped herself back down. "If this is about---"
"The moment," Bridcutt interrupted. "The one you mentioned in your car that evening when our lips briefly met." He nodded. "Yes, this is very much about that. Is it ever going to arrive you think, this moment? Yes or no, whatever the answer is, I just need to know, Diane. You can't keep a guy hanging on like this."
She reached her hands across the table, grasped them around one of his.
"You're a special guy, Jonah, really. Smart, brave, big-hearted. You make me smile too - and the Lord alone knows that's hard most of the time."
"Your next sentence is going to begin with the word 'but', right?"
The disappointment in those grey eyes gazing back at her was difficult to behold.
"But that moment I talked about, it's not so much a case of when it might arrive, more that it's already passed."
His tone wasn't angry or bitter, but that of a man resigned to the reality of what he'd already hypothesised.
"There's someone else, right? Just knew it."
She was surprised to find herself nodding the affirmative, almost as if by doing so she'd pulled the delicious tingling aspiration from her subconsciousness out into the bright light of reality.
"Maybe. I... I'm not really sure. It's all a little complicated, let's say."
*
Rarely for a crime story, the denouement of the case made the opening headline across all of the national early evening bulletins. Images switched between the sadly familiar facial shots of Kirsty Hollister and Joanne Renshaw, panned sweeps of the verdant rolling hills of the Cranwell Tors, the blurred close up of Shivay Gupta which one of tabloids had previously edited from a factory staff group shot, and a flustered, defensive Detective Chief Superintendent Rogers desperately trying to bat away the journalists' questions at the entrance steps of Branstead station. The nation would however have to wait before it encountered any images of John Pitman himself - existing photographs of the reclusive sheep farmer were few, it seemed.
The voices of both the studio newsreaders and the crime correspondents at the scene were animated and slightly breathless at the sheer unexpectedness of it all.
... in a bizarre final twist...
... a sheep farmer by the name of John Pitman...
... the type who kept himself to himself, by all accounts...
... the local community here in Southwold have been left absolutely speechless by the unanticipated turn of events...
... it's being reported Pitman has also been charged with manslaughter regarding the death of his wife, Glenda, eighteen months ago...
... it would appear that Shivay Gupta - who was referred to as 'The Indian Monster' in certain tabloids - was completely unconnected to the two murders...
... the reasons for Gupta's confession are still unclear and perhaps will never be made public...
... serious questions are now emerging about the nature of the original investigation led by Detective Chief Inspector Gooch...
...politicians from both sides of the House have expressed their hope that today's development will help stem the wave of anti-immigrant sentiment which has engulfed the nation since Gupta's arrest...
*
As she watched, Claire felt the most gelid of shudders down her spine. The same sensation, she imagined, as witnessing a ghost or coming across a pale bloated corpse amongst the undergrowth whilst taking the dog for a walk.
Sharon was on the settee beside her, noisily munching down a packet of Wotsits.
"Told you, didn't I?" Her words were accompanied by a splutter of orangey-coloured spit. "Jesus, Claire! It was a bloody good job I convinced you not to take the Southwold entrance yesterday."
For the sake of avoiding an argument - for sake of not painting herself as someone who took personal promises between friends lightly - Claire hadn't told her about the previous day's blood-chilling episode, the almost tear-inducing sense of relief she'd felt when that kindly old gentleman had pulled up at the sight of her outstretched arm and raised thumb, escorted her safely back to her Fiat at the entrance gate.
That idiot inspector, Gooch. Didn't deserve just to be sacked but to be damn well thrown inside a prison cell for a good while too.
She wondered which of her own facial shots the media would have selected had she met the same fate as Kirsty and Joanne? One of the photos from her brother's wedding the summer before or else from the office Christmas party the previous December?
Wondered just how close the reaper's blade had passed.
*
Bryan Dixon pitched himself forward on the settee, turned up the volume on the remote. Instinctively almost - a little like riding a bicycle or taking a dip in the pool after a prolonged absence - the news caused his facial muscles to flex and tauten their way into a smile. That blonde-haired female detective had been behind it all, no doubt.
Oh, Shivay Gupta had had his weaknesses, as all men did. At heart he'd been good man however - better than the vast majority Bryan had rubbed shoulders with over the decades. He deserved his vindication. His wife and daughter deserved to live the rest of their lives in peace.
Up there in heaven, he imagined Melanie would be smiling too. A thought heart-gladdening enough for him to screw the top back on tightly to the whisky bottle, and to leave it screwed on tightly for the rest of the evening.
*
Her mother was wide-eyed and uncomprehending there on the settee beside her, the Hindi spluttering from her lips a high-pitched frenetic squeal.
"What are they saying, Prisha? What in name of Ganesh are they talking about?"
Prisha's response was equally as screeched. "Just shut it, would you mum! Let me listen, okay."
She watched as if following the end of some stupid American film she'd rented from Blockbuster's. Detached almost, not believing it to be true - the journalists on the screen just wily overpaid actors making it all up.
And then once the report was over and she'd had a moment to breathe the central message of it down into her lungs - absorb it a little, begin to come to terms with it - she turned to her mother. Inviting her into her arms, she clenched her into the tightest of filial hugs.
"They've got him, mum," she whispered. "The Trail Killer, they've finally worked out who it is."
The moment of elation would quickly fade however, was replaced by a much darker emotional note - a sense of frustration which Prisha feared would linger for the rest of her life.
"If only he'd known about Diane, mum. That there was somebody on our side, prepared to sacrifice everything she had in name of justice."
Her tears had flown freely of late, were doing so again.
"Maybe he'd have been patient. Waited a little. Be right here with us now."