I cruised slowly around the dirty streets, attracting some equally dirty looks when the whores who were already out working moved forward to proposition me, only to discover a woman driver. I found the last address that Derek had given me without too much difficulty. Like so many of the Yorkshire stone houses in the area, it had obviously once been the home of a prosperous burgher. It was a big Victorian property, standing close to its neighbors. Behind the scabby paintwork of the window frames there was an assortment of grubby curtains, no two rooms matching. In front of the house, what had once been the garden had been badly asphalted over, with weeds sprouting through the cracks in the tarmac. I got out of the car and carefully set the alarm.

I climbed the four steps up to a front door that looked as if it had been kicked in a few times and examined an array of a dozen bells. Only a couple had names by them, and neither was Moira’s. Sighing deeply, I rang the bottom bell. Nothing happened, and I started working my way systematically up the bells till I reached

I debated whether to apologize for troubling her, but decided that I didn’t want to sound like the social services department. “I’m looking for Moira Pollock. She still living here?”

The woman scowled suspiciously. “Why d’you want Moira?”

“We used to be in the same line of business,” I lied, hoping I looked like a possible candidate for the meat rack.

“Well, she ain’t here. She moved out, must be more’n a year ago.” The woman moved back and started to close the window.

“Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?”

She paused. “I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ’ambleton. She used to drink there.”

My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.