The sting in the tail for me came at the very end. Instead of going to the halfway house after her initial intensive treatment, she had moved in with a woman called Maggie Rossiter. The notes on the file said that Maggie Rossiter was a social worker with Leeds City Council and a volunteer worker at the Seagull Project.

That was unusual enough to raise my eyebrows. But a separate report by Seagull’s full-time psychiatrist was even more revealing. According to Dr. Briggs, Maggie and Moira had formed a highly charged emotional attachment while Moira was still at Seagull. Following her discharge, they had become lovers and were now living together as a couple. In the doctor’s opinion, this relationship was a significant contributory factor in Moira’s commitment to staying off heroin.

Jett was going to love this, I thought to myself as I made a note of Maggie Rossiter’s address. It’s one thing to know with your head that a lot of whores prefer relationships with women. I can’t say I blame them. If the only men I ever encountered were johns or pimps, I’d probably feel the same way. But when the woman concerned was your former soul mate … That was a whole different ball game.

I reluctantly called Colcutt Manor to give Jett an up-to-date report, but Gloria informed me gleefully that he was out. No, she didn’t know where he could be reached. No, she didn’t know when

I copied Moira’s files on to the disc where I was storing Jett’s information, then switched off the computer. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, not just because I was alone in it, but because all the other offices in the building are occupied by sensible people who think working from Monday to Friday is quite enough to be going on with. I locked up behind me and walked down to the ground floor. Luckily, I emerged on Oxford Road just before the afternoon matinee at the Palace Theater spilled its crowds on to the pavement. I’d left the car at home since parking near the office is impossible thanks to Saturday afternoon theatergoers and shoppers. Besides, the walk would do me good, I’d thought. That was before the rain came on.

I plodded up past the BBC and headed across to Upper Brook Street. By the time I got home, I was wet through. I hoped Richard had been sitting far enough back in the stands to avoid a soaking. I had a quick shower to warm me up, then I stood in front of the wardrobe wondering which outfit would be the key that would get me across Maggie Rossiter’s doorstep.