‘We had to do something to stop the slum landlords evicting people. So the law was passed, stopping them breaking into residential properties. And now we have the opposite problem – people taking over empty buildings, and making them their homes.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Hobbes asked.

‘Small fry, without a doubt. But they’re not paying rent.’

‘Nothing to do with the police, surely.’

‘I’m paying top whack for my digs, Henry. Why the hell shouldn’t everyone else?’

Hobbes laughed. ‘You haven’t changed, Sally.’

‘Change? Why would I change? I’m perfect as I am.’

Now they were both laughing. She steered her Ford Granada into a side-street.

‘Anyway, we keep as low a profile around the squats as we can, but some of these places, they’re hotbeds for drugs, violence, political unrest, you name it. And now and then some young idiot gets him- or herself killed. Overdose, usually. Or else they fall off the roofs. They like to go up there and get high. They start dancing around, and splat!’

The talk of young people dying quietened Hobbes. They had visited three places so far, and the task seemed daunting, just from the outside: boarded-up windows, barbed wire, threatening graffiti, no one answering any of the doors. And if they did see someone, the usual response was abuse: Fuckin’ pigs! Cop filth!

Hobbes had heard it all before, and worse, but it still got to him.

‘Who is this guy you’re looking for anyway?’ Talbot asked.

‘A long-time informant. He went off the map recently, but I know he has info for me on a case.’ He had the story down pat.

Talbot pulled the car to a halt and turned to her passenger. ‘Now why don’t I believe you? You’re pulling a stunt, aren’t you? Come on, what’s really going on?’

Hobbes shrugged. ‘Hush-hush.’

‘Personal, is it? Are you in trouble? Again, Hobbes?’

‘Something like that.’

Talbot grinned. ‘Christ, but you lead a shitty life.’

They got out of the car and walked to the edge of a rundown housing block. ‘And here we are. Welcome to Cromwell House.’

Straight away, Hobbes knew this was the one. ‘I thought I was looking for a person, a man.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘All I had was a name, a contact. Oliver.’

‘Right, yes. Oliver’s. Or plain Ollie’s. That’s the nickname the kids use for the block. They obviously think they’re performing some kind of rebellion. Well, they are. But only against their nice middle-class upbringings.’ Talbot smirked. ‘Most of them come here from the suburbs, looking for excitement.’

Hobbes had stopped listening.

‘Mind, I should tell you, this place is a bit different from the others. Well, you’ll see.’

They walked into a large interior courtyard, surrounded on all sides by three-storey-high walkways. Every single window he could see was boarded up, as was every door. It was eerily silent, even in the middle of the afternoon.

‘Are you sure people live here?’ Hobbes asked.

‘They do. But the Roundheads like to keep themselves to themselves. They’re a private tribe, cut off from normal life, and even from the other squatting communities. They live by their own laws here, and there’s not a lot we can do about it.’