We arrived at a quarter past two. The Crosses’ house was a neat semi-detached three-up two-down property, of a style which pointed to it having been built before the Second World War. The front garden, in common with most of the houses in the street, had been paved over to accommodate the ubiquitous motor car. The vehicle outside the Crosses’ house was an ageing Honda Civic fitted with manual controls. A wreath was already hanging on the front door, an indication perhaps that Sharon Gregory’s parents were very conventional people when it came to signs of mourning. A woman answered the door. ‘Are you from the press?’ she asked. Although she was in plain clothes, I guessed who she was and why she was there. ‘Because if you are—’ ‘No, we’re police officers from the Met,’ I said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock and Detective Inspector Ebdon.’ ‘Sorry about that, sir, but the vultures have started circling already. I’m PC Jacobs from Basildon police station, a victim support officer.
