The Nutters lived on Millionaires’ Row, the nicest street in Malbry. Big stone houses with metal gates and walls to keep the trespassers out, with nicely mown lawns and flower beds and broad gravel paths under the trees. One of my colleagues lived there—an Art Master, now long since retired, working on a book in one of those gracious old houses. The Nutters’ house was especially large, especially well kept, with electronic gates and a set of cameras surveying the drive. I supposed that Nutter, like all MPs, had to be suspicious. The troubles in Northern Ireland had spread since the hunger strikes at the Maze, and might one day spread even to Malbry. It had briefly occurred to me too that Charlie might have been kidnapped; that his parents had paid the ransom and that this was the cause of their reticence.

But a kidnapping, in Malbry? It seemed barely conceivable. Malbry is one of those places where nothing really happens. Even now, in the Village, people still leave their doors unlocked—although it is very different down in White City, where the pebble-dashed houses are often fitted with grilles to safeguard the windows. White City is less than a mile from the Village, and yet it is a world apart. Even the pubs are different; and the takeaways are all fish-and-chip shops, rather than places like the Pink Zebra, which sells salads and ethnic food. White City boys (and girls, of course) go to school in Sunnybank Park, the concrete abomination in the Abbey Road estate, and wear expressions of cocky disdain to hide their essential self-loathing. They also push their fish-and-chip wrappers into my hedge at the end of Dog Lane, as if doing so absolves them of the responsibility of disposing of their litter. And yet, the Sunnybankers too have parents who would grieve for them. Who was that boy in the clay pits? I thought. Was there someone still waiting for him?

Mrs. Nutter answered the door. I remembered her as a thin, elegant woman. Now she looked almost skeletal. She was wearing a long, flowing thing with some kind of looping, swirling pattern; she looked like a child dressed in a bedspread. Mrs. Harrington was with her, holding a cup of coffee.

“Mr. Straitley! What a surprise!”

From her face, I wasn’t sure whether the surprise was good or not. I touched my hat. I’d taken to wearing one in the winter; it was unfashionable, but very practical in the snow, and besides, it gave me something to do when I was dealing with women.

“Mrs. Nutter. Good morning. I just came to see if Charlie needed anything. Books, class notes, anything. We’ve all been very anxious.”