‘OK, I need help with this. Glenda?’

She spelled it out: ‘Our son took away a wedding photo, and replaced it with that one. I didn’t realize he’d done it, not until later, after he’d left.’

Hobbes examined the new photograph.

He asked, ‘Which photo did he take? What did it show?’

‘The two of us. Just me and you, Henry, outside the church. That’s all.’

Hobbes found he was trembling slightly. What was going on? Why on earth should Martin want that photograph? The lad had never shown any interest in their wedding before. Was it a good thing that he was seeking out these old images from their relationship? Did he want to be reminded of something, of the family’s better days? Was that it?

And why on earth replace it with a new image?

He looked at Glenda and asked, ‘Did he leave then?’

She nodded. ‘He was agitated. His mood kept changing, I couldn’t keep up with him. He stood up, paced the room a few times, speaking to himself, and then he left. I called to him, but he just ignored me. The front door banged shut.’ Her eyes suddenly opened wide, as though she could still hear the bang of the door against the frame. ‘And then he was gone.’

She sat next to him on the settee and he took her hand in his.

Neither of them spoke a word. He could hear a radio playing through the wall. Radio 1. Pop hits. A bright, sunny tune. They always played it too loudly.

Her fingers curling around his.

That was good. He held on. This was the closest they’d been in half a year. His eyes closed. That it took all this to make it happen …

‘Do you know where he’s living?’ he asked.

‘In Peckham, I think. One of those illegal housing places.’

‘A squat?’

‘Yes. I think he mentioned someone called Oliver. A friend, maybe. I don’t know.’

Hobbes made a mental note. ‘Good. That’s something.’

Her mood lit up, and he reacted to the signal, as he always would. ‘I’ll find him, Glen. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll help him.’

But in truth a strange mood had taken him over, dark-tinged. It was this room, the lost promises, a young man growing up too quickly. And not for the first time Hobbes thought of how the troubles of the past half-year had affected the boy: not just his parents separating, but also the problems at work, his father’s face in the newspapers – DI Hobbes called ‘outright liar’ in Soho attack case. And even on the Nine O’Clock News, right here in the living room, with all three of them sitting in their usual places – father, mother and son – watching the television in silence. It had all started after the Brixton riot had devastated the city. Hobbes had stumbled on a group of fellow officers attacking a young black man. He’d blown the whistle on them, and been punished for it by his colleagues, high and low.