‘People take them or they smoke them like cigarettes and sometimes, I think, they sort of have them like the injections you get at the doctor, needles in your arm. I know they make you feel weird but people like it.’

‘Do you know that they can kill you?’

‘Yeah, if you get the wrong ones. I know they cost a ton of money. It’s not like getting the injections and stuff free from the doctor.’

‘So where do people get them?’

‘The chemist.’

‘Really? Any chemist’s shop?’

‘No, just . . . some. Tommy said. He said you got them from the Chinky one in Starly, the one that got burned down.’

‘How did Tommy know that?’

Brookie looked out of the window, then back. ‘I dunno.’

‘Did Fats ever talk to you about them?’

‘No, but I know he had something to do with them.’

Vince did not speak, sensing that Serrailler had not yet done, but Simon saw he was shocked that another of his sons was somehow involved. He himself was unsurprised.

‘All right, Brookie, now listen. You are not in trouble and you did nothing wrong. You made one mistake and that was not telling your dad. You should have done that the moment Fats brought you home the second time. The first time might have seemed OK, though you should never accept lifts from someone you don’t know and I bet your father’s told you that, yes? But you’d missed the bus and didn’t know how else you were going to get home and this guy seemed OK, and so far as it went that day, it was OK. He drove you back to Starly and dropped you on the corner. But when Fats met you the second time out of school, and gave you a lift again, and the rucksack, you should have told your dad. You understand why, don’t you?’

Nod.

‘I’m not angry, Brooklyn, I’m just reinforcing what you already know. You need to understand that not everyone who seems nice and friendly and harmless really is. It’s a tough thing to have to learn, but everyone does. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

‘Yes.’

The boy was eleven, but sitting opposite Simon he looked small in the high-backed chair, and, with fine hair and soft skin, he might have been nine.

‘Is it . . .’

Serrailler waited in silence, while Brooklyn swivelled again, looked back out of the window, thinking about what he needed to ask and at the same time shooting Vince a warning not to jump in.

‘Someone said he got murdered.’

‘Who did?’

‘Fats.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Tommy. He said he’d seen about it.’

‘I can only tell you that Fats is dead. He was found dead in his caravan – did you ever go there?’

‘No, he said he lived in a big house.’