A crash from deep in the house forced Julia to step back and Jack followed her into the kitchen. The floor was covered in cake mix and two young boys stared up at Julia like butter wouldn’t melt. She handed the older one a five-pound note.

“Tidy up. Go and buy a cake.”

Then she headed into the conservatory.

Numerous kids played in the back gardens, which, just like the houses, were all knocked into one. The ages ranged from about 6 to 16 and they spanned numerous ethnicities. The conservatory was like half a goldfish bowl and, from here, Julia could see every inch of the garden. Nothing was getting past her. The low windowsill that ran around the edge, only stopping to accommodate two sets of double doors, was filled with picture frames of various kids. Some photos were sun-bleached with age, other were newer—but all were displayed proudly. One wall in the lounge they passed through was also floor-to-ceiling pictures. Julia had pointed to them.

“Some of the kids can’t be photographed, but those who can are in a frame somewhere in the house. It’s important for the new kids to see that they’re not the only ones. It can feel lonely, thinking everyone else’s life is better than yours.”

The older kids in the garden eventually noticed Jack and instinctively moved closer to the conservatory in case Julia needed them.

“I’m DC Jack Warr from the Met.”

Julia stood silent, waiting for him to explain further. But he didn’t.

“How many kids do you look after here?”

“I thought you weren’t here for the children.”

Julia clearly didn’t trust the police and nor did the kids in the garden.

“I’m not. I . . .”

Jack looked through the window at the happy children and finishing this sentence suddenly became very hard. Julia recognized a lost child when she saw one and guessed that he had started life in a place like this. No one said anything for a moment.

Jack smiled as he started again. “I hear you work wonders with the kids. I spoke to a colleague in Manchester and she was certainly impressed.”

Another silence. Julia waited.

“I could have been in that system,” said Jack. “But I was lucky enough to be placed relatively quickly. I was 5.”

And with that one sentence the atmosphere changed completely. Ten minutes later, he was drinking tea and listening to Julia talk about how, to date, she’d helped more than 370 troubled or unwanted children.

“We go to West Kirby near the Wirral every month and, once a year, we head a bit further north to Formby beach and nature reserve. The kids love it—some pretend not to, of course, but that’s just to save face. Tough men can’t enjoy donkey rides.”

Jack spotted one photo on the windowsill of a young girl, maybe 9 or 10, jumping a small fence on horseback. He made a comment about that child progressing far beyond donkeys on the beach.