“Now she’s a nice girl. Haven’t seen her since the shooting. Thick, mind you. I don’t suppose that’s changed.”

Jack gave no indication of his opinion on Connie or Ester.

“Three houses knocked into one,” he said, sounding impressed. “That must have cost a bit.”

“I don’t own this place, I just run it. Dolly once said, ‘If you’ve got money, Julia, you can be whatever you want.’ Money meant a lot to her. She liked people to see that she was someone. But I always thought there was something missing from her life that no amount of money could buy. Something fundamental. Kids, I suspect.” Julia glanced out of the conservatory at the children playing in the garden. “Most of these will never know where they’re from, so it’s vital for them to know where they’re going. Do you know where you’re from?”

Jack liked Julia, and talking about the subject of childhood with someone experienced actually felt quite therapeutic.

“As I say, I was lucky.” And then he lied. “I never felt the drive to find my real parents because I don’t need them. I know who I am and I know where I’m from. My foster parents taught me.”

The way Julia looked at Jack made a deeply buried memory pop right into the front of his mind. He suddenly recalled a moment when he was about six. He’d stolen the last of Charlie’s diabetic chocolate brownies and, when Penny asked him about it, he’d lied straight to her face, even though he had chocolate-covered hands and lips. He’d just done the same to Julia and she saw right through him, just as Penny had done.

“But the kids here,” he concluded, “are very lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have them. I need to be needed, you see. Always have. I think that’s why I became a doctor all those years ago, before I royally fucked it all up. I’m a recovering addict and I’m weak, especially when I’m on my own. I have to have someone to live for and the kids give me that. But every day I walk a tightrope between success and failure. I’m only ever one step away from falling off the wagon and ending up dead. That’s what would happen if I took drugs again . . . I’d die.”

Ridley could see Superintendent Maxine Raeburn sitting at her desk through the wall of glass that separated her from the corridor. She was on the phone, nodding and humming in all the right places. Max had seen and acknowledged Ridley, but he had to wait outside regardless—he guessed that the call she was on was above his pay grade. Max Raeburn was one of the best superintendents Ridley had ever worked under, a quiet, patient, but surprisingly intimidating woman. She was so slight, she looked as if she could be knocked down by a feather, but she’d be nipping at your ankles the moment she hit the floor. When she was promoted, she’d refused the big office on the top floor and insisted on being in this huge goldfish bowl of an office next door to Ridley. She wanted her officers to see her daily; she wanted them to know that she was first in and last out; she wanted them to know where she was at all times; and she wanted them to feel free to knock on her door. Not many people did, of course, on account of the chain of command. CID officers knocked on Ridley’s door (even when it was open), Ridley knocked on her door—that’s the way it was.