Robin headed back up the street towards the house. She had dressed in jeans and trainers today: there must be no tripping, no falling over. The newly reconnected tendons throbbed beneath the cast.

Her heart was thumping so hard that it hurt as she knocked on Alyssa’s front door. The older daughter peeped out of the bow window to her right as she stood waiting. Robin smiled nervously. The girl ducked out of sight.

The woman who appeared less than a minute later was, by any standards, gorgeous. Tall, black and with a bikini model’s figure, she wore her hair in waist-length twists. The first thought that shot through Robin’s mind was that if a strip joint had been prepared to fire Alyssa, she must indeed be a tricky character.

“Yeah?” she said, frowning at Robin.

“Hi,” said Robin, her mouth dry. “Are you Alyssa Vincent?”

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“My name’s Robin Ellacott,” said Robin, her mouth dry. “I wonder—could I have a quick word with you about Noel?”

“What about him?” demanded Alyssa.

“I’d rather tell you inside,” said Robin.

Alyssa had the wary, defiant look of one perpetually braced to take the next punch life was going to throw her.

“Please. It’s important,” said Robin, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth because it was so dry. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

Their eyes locked: Alyssa’s a warm caramel brown, Robin’s a clear gray-blue. Robin was sure that Alyssa was going to refuse. Then the thick-lashed eyes widened suddenly and a strange flicker of excitement passed over Alyssa’s face, as though she had just experienced a pleasurable revelation. Without another word, Alyssa stepped backwards into the dimly lit hall and made a strangely extravagant flourish, pointing Robin inside.

Robin did not know why she felt a lurch of misgiving. Only the thought that the two little girls were in there pushed her over the threshold.

A minuscule hall opened onto the sitting room. A TV and a single sofa constituted the only furnishings. A table lamp sat on the floor. There were two photographs in cheap gilt frames hanging on the wall, one showing chubby Zahara, the toddler, who was wearing a turquoise dress with matching butterfly clips in her hair, the other of her big sister in a maroon school uniform. The sister was the image of her beautiful mother. The photographer had not managed to induce a smile.

Robin heard a lock being turned on the front door. She turned, her trainers screeching on the polished wood floor. Somewhere nearby a loud ping announced that a microwave had just finished its work.

“Mama!” said a shrill voice.

“Angel!” shouted Alyssa, walking into the room. “Get it out for her! All right,” she said, arms folded, “what d’you wanna tell me about Noel, then?”

Robin’s impression that Alyssa was gloating over some private piece of intelligence was reinforced by the nasty smirk that disfigured the lovely face. The ex-stripper stood with her arms crossed, so that her breasts were thrust up like the figurehead of a ship, the long ropes of hair hanging to her waist. She was taller than Robin by two inches.