The history, that sense of continuity, had surrounded Josh like warmth in the folds of his coat; it was one of the many things Corinna had loved about him. She’d spent her first decade moving from one place to another according to whether her dad was on the wagon and employed, or AWOL, last seen en route to the off-licence with Di’s purse. It wasn’t until she was twelve and Di finally gave up on Trevor that she’d lived anywhere for more than a year. Even after the divorce, their first landlord in King’s Heath had sold the flat out from under them. Josh’s family could trace their history on this patch for hundreds of years. They didn’t rent, they owned.

Would he ever walk into the factory again? One way or another, she doubted it now. After five days, it was getting harder and harder to believe he could come back physically unharmed from wherever he was. And even if he was still alive, there’d probably be criminal charges to face.

He’d done something, she was sure of it now. That sense of continuity, solid ground under his feet, had a flip-side: a stupid sense of responsibility, a compulsion to share his security with other people – Corinna, Peter, his workforce. He’d wanted to keep them safe. Robin felt a sudden burst of rage – she wanted to grab him, bodily shake him, You idiot, you idiot – what have you done?

A memory of the scream, shrill, heart-stopping, and she was back in that yard, the brick wall behind them, the alleyway disappearing in darkness. A half-ring of streetlight. His face. I don’t know. I don’t know.

The sound of an engine yanked her out of it. Heart beating fast, she saw a silver saloon coming down the road behind her. Two men in the front seats, visors down against the sun which already, at barely three o’clock, seemed to be making its excuses. Too late to move: it would only draw attention. She lowered her head, tried to meld with the seat.

They indicated and pulled in just in front of her. Robin kept her eyes down, avoiding meeting the driver’s in his mirror. She heard the slam of doors, the double beep of the lock.

They crossed the road towards the factory without speaking. Even if she hadn’t already recognized one of them, she would have known they were CID. Both wore suits, the younger one’s slate-blue, the other’s grey with a green wax jacket over the top, like travelling salesmen who’d left their briefcases in the car but for a masked watchfulness, a state of physical alertness she knew back to front because she had it, too. What were they doing here? Had they got something new?