‘Listen, if you want to be anonymous, try taking the plates off the van. It’s still registered in your name. Bit of a giveaway, that.’

‘Shit.’

‘Not much of a mastermind, are you, Calvin?’

‘They call me Cal,’ he said.

‘Is Benson Street, Stockport, still your home address?’

‘No, that’s my parents’ house.’

‘Can we have your current address, please?’

‘Number One, Quarry Avenue, Stonesville.’

The sergeant wrote it down. ‘Where’s that?’

Cal sneered, and looked at the other officers, inviting them to share his disdain. ‘It’s here, man. I live here.’

‘In the van?’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘You’re giving that thing as your permanent residence?’

‘It’s as permanent as anything is.’

‘That might be debatable. Do the owners of this property know you’re here? Have you got permission for overnight parking?’

‘Jesus, are you real?’ said Cal. ‘Or did I just fall into an old Benny Hill Show?’

‘No? In that case, you might find your home is more temporary than you think, son.’

Cal folded his arms across the holes in his sweater. A mulish look came over his face. ‘You’ll have to drag us out of here, if you want to move us.’

‘Well, we can arrange that, if necessary.’

The sergeant looked at the girl. She had said nothing yet. In fact, her attention seemed to have wandered. She gently pushed some of the hair from her eyes as she turned to watch the movement of some home-made wind chimes hanging in a birch tree on the edge of the quarry. Cooper realized that the chimes were providing a constant background tune that made the sergeant’s voice sound curiously discordant and out of place, a meaningless animal growl against the harmonies of a distant choir. The sound of the chimes seemed to mean more to this dreamy young woman than the small army of police officers who had invaded her home.

‘And your name, miss?’ said the sergeant.

She seemed not to have heard him. Her gaze remained directed into space, oblivious to the turn in the conversation, unaware of the attention that was on her.

‘You, miss. Can we have your name, please?’

Then she turned and smiled at him, a whimsical smile, not unfriendly or sullen. She pushed back her hair again and her fingers danced across her face, fluttering on her cheeks in a curious gesture. Then Cooper saw the faint fuzz of hair on the jawline and the top lip, the Adam’s apple and wide forehead under the hair. Not ‘miss’ at all, but another male.

Cal butted in, moving slightly to impose himself between his friend and the policeman.

‘You’ve got it wrong again. We call him Stride,’ he said.

The sergeant had noticed his mistake, too. ‘OK. But I’m talking to him, not you.’

‘Just don’t talk to him like that.’

The sergeant stared grimly at the second youth. ‘Your name, please, sir.’