The décor would give lesser men a migraine. The curtains and walls were a fag-smoke tan color and, although the flat was tidy, it wasn’t clean. Audrey had “gone to pot.” She was an old woman, wearing old clothes, surrounded by old things, in an old flat. Her days of making an effort had long gone. There were four photo frames on the sideboard: one picture of Shirley, aged 20, in a beauty pageant sash; one of Mike, at the same age, in his army uniform; one of Greg, aged about 14, in his school uniform; the fourth frame contained a tiny pink baby bonnet and mittens. Badly knitted. Never worn. These photos showed the pinnacle of each child’s life, and they were displayed with a huge amount of love and pride. They were the only things in this room not covered in dust.

Ridley sighed heavily. Shirley had been shot to death in a botched diamond raid, Greg was in prison on his fifth compulsory drug-rehab program, there was obviously a miscarriage in the mix somewhere, and he was about to tell Audrey that Mike had been bludgeoned to death and then burned beyond recognition. Sometimes Ridley hated this job—no mother should outlive one of her children, let alone three.

Ridley knew that, after the death notification, he’d lose any co-operation from Audrey; he opted to delay the bad news until he’d had the opportunity to ask a few questions.

“Mrs. Withey, back in 1995 there was a train robbery in Aylesbury, do you remember? Mike was still on the force back then, under the command of DCI Craigh—”

“We never spoke about work.” Audrey shut Ridley down before he could start. “What you asking about ancient history for, when you should be looking for my boy?”

“I presumed Mike would have mentioned this particular case to you, seeing as it involved Dolly Rawlins.”

Audrey pursed her sallow lips and jabbed her yellow-tipped finger at Ridley.

“You don’t mention that woman’s name in my house,” she snarled as the instinctive, uncontrollable hatred bubbled quickly to the surface. “I only let you in ’cos you said you wanted to talk about Mike. And now you’re mentioning that bitch and talking about some train robbery. Not trying to pin that on him as well, are ya?”

“As well as what, Mrs. Withey?” Ridley was annoyingly calm, making Audrey jump to her feet.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m thick. You’re in my house! I been around the block, son, so don’t try and trick me into incriminating Mike. Yes! I remember the train robbery—’cos it was just months before your lot booted Mike out. He served his country, home and abroad, and what did you do? You treated him like a criminal.” Then Audrey smiled. “You got no clue where he is, ’ave ya? Well, good. All you want to do is use him as a scapegoat again. If he’s running, good!”

“Why would he be running?”

“’Cos he knows your game. When she was released, we grieved all over again for our Shirl and . . .” Audrey glanced at the photos, gulped and regained composure. “The bonnet and mittens are pink ’cos I so desperately wanted it to be another girl. I’d have called her Eve—that was my Shirl’s middle name, after my mum.” When Audrey looked back in Ridley’s direction, her eyes were red but the tears were being held back by the hatred. “Stress, the doctors said. Stress made my body neglect my unborn child and she died inside me. Dolly Rawlins did that!” She pointed to the line of four photos. “She did all of that!”