‘Are you allowed?’

‘Not strictly. But you know how it is. Old habits.’

‘Sure.’

Hobbes handed over a cigarette and lit it for him. Collingworth opened the window and blew the smoke outside. ‘I’ll give my teeth a brush before Rita gets back.’ He tapped a fingernail against the glass. ‘A clever design, this window. Every resident can see the countryside and the sea.’ There was pride in his voice.

It was absurd. And painful.

Hobbes didn’t know what to say. He could find no easy way of broaching the subject, the reason he’d come to Margate.

He looked down at the beach. The tide was coming in and only a thin strip of sand was visible. A few moving dots indicated locals out shopping, or walking the dog. There was a small run-down amusement park that called itself Dreamland. It was closed at the moment, the rides empty. Glenda and he had holidayed here, when was that? 1965, ’66? Early on in their marriage. He remembered laughter, and bright colours, cries of delight. But now, on a drizzly day in late October, a deep melancholy hovered over the town.

Jack Collingworth had a different view. ‘Margate in the rain. Is there any place better?’ He threw the cigarette into the outside air and closed the window. ‘Brrr. It’s chilly.’

‘I was thinking about when we first met, Jack.’

‘Oh, aye? Long ago and far away.’

‘It was the same day that I met Glenda.’

‘Was it? Oh, God, yes! I remember now. Vaguely. She had some kind of unsavoury job, didn’t she?’

Hobbes nodded. ‘She worked in a cinema.’

‘A dirty-film show, that was it.’

‘Anyway, Jack, it got me thinking.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘It connects to a case I’m working on.’

‘What does?’

‘The day we met.’

Collingworth turned to look at him. They were standing only a foot apart. ‘Now you’ve got me curious.’ Worry settled on his face, as though he already knew what was coming.

Hobbes steeled himself. ‘Jack …’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘I’m here to talk about Georgie.’

Collingworth’s hand pressed on the glass. The fingers splayed. He groaned. His whole body seemed to strain against some exterior force, and he wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t give in. Only the glass kept him from tumbling clean away. Fifteen floors. Hobbes wondered if his old friend had ever been tempted.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry to bring this up now. I know—’

‘What? What do you know?’

Bitterness had taken over Collingworth’s voice. His hand was still pressed against the window. It looked to be stuck there. ‘I found him, you know.’

‘Who, Jack?’

‘The bastard who took my son from me.’

Hobbes was shocked. He didn’t know how to respond.

‘1975, this was. December. Late one night on the Millwall Docks.’

‘Jack, you didn’t …’

The hand left the glass, bunched into a fist. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Henry. I won’t burden you with the details. Whatever happened, I’ll take it to my grave.’ He made a soft noise, and a gesture: something falling into water.