Maggie looked down at Hannah, their eyes met and they gazed at each other. Maggie had once told Jack that a newborn baby’s eyesight was only clear between eight and twelve inches; beyond that everything was blurred. Eight to twelve inches was the distance between the faces of mother and baby when feeding, so nature had very purposefully designed a baby’s vision to see Mum far more clearly than the rest of the world. As Jack watched Maggie interact with Hannah so naturally, despite himself his thoughts drifted to Trudie Nunn. Jack’s inadequate birth-mother had clearly had none of the maternal instinct he was watching at work here. She’d walked away from him as a baby, leaving him with his Aunt Fran who, after months of struggling to look after him in addition to her own family, had finally handed Jack over to the fostering system. How fickle they must both have been to walk away from their own flesh and blood, he thought. And how incredibly special Charlie and Penny Warr had been, to love a baby that wasn’t theirs.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Maggie’s question broke into Jack’s moment of reminiscing.

‘I was thinking about Dad.’

There was such a soft, loving look in Jack’s eyes that Maggie knew he was talking about Charlie Warr, not Harry Rawlins. Maggie held out her hand and Jack moved to her side. He leant in and kissed Hannah’s forehead, then rested his own head on Maggie’s shoulder. Hannah’s eyes moved to Jack and explored his face with such intensity that it felt as though she was staring into his soul. Jack whispered to his daughter, ‘I’m going to tell you all about your grandad when you’re older. I hope I can be half the dad he was.’ Maggie stroked Jack’s hair as Hannah continued to take in every inch of his face. Then Hannah smiled and Jack gasped. ‘Look, Mags. She smiled at me.’ Maggie lovingly kissed Jack’s head and decided not to tell him that Hannah had just farted on her knee.

*

DI Joseph Gifford was outside the police station, waiting for Jack’s taxi to arrive. Parked behind him was a blue Vauxhall Corsa that had seen better days: this would be Jack’s transport for the duration of his stay in the Cotswolds. This station was tiny compared to even the smallest of London nicks, and Jack’s parking space had been stolen from a uniformed sergeant.

Gifford was a short, dumpy man, at least two inches shorter than Jack. His deep voice and rotund appearance gave him the look of an opera singer. He greeted Jack with a handshake that could crush bones, suggesting a streetwise toughness belied by Gifford’s rather sheltered upbringing and uneventful rise up the ranks. ‘Welcome, Jack. Good to have you on board.’

*