Having done that, she rang Archie, got an address for Marcus Lee, then, after thanking the man profusely, she phoned Yvonne Collins on her mobile.

‘Any luck with that snout of yours?’

‘No one’s seen him since lunchtime, ma’am.’ The constable sounded both tired and worried.

‘Look, sorry to add to your problems, but would you two make an unofficial call on 201 Bristow Street? We are anxious to locate a young man who lives there. He’s named Marcus Lee. We believe he may be injured, possibly severely. Softly, softly please, Collins. We don’t want to alarm his family if this turns out to be unreliable information, okay?’

‘We’re quite close to there now, ma’am. I’ll ring you back. Oh, and ma’am, there’s an ugly feeling on the estate this evening.’

‘Like what?’

‘Hard to put our finger on it, just feels really uneasy.’

‘I’ll pass on those good tidings to your sergeant, as if he wasn’t stressed enough already! Hear from you soon.’ She closed her phone and strode along the corridor towards the lift. If Mickey was correct, this was the first time Fluke had shown his hand and actually been identified. Not that he believed Mickey would be around long enough to point the finger. Nikki stopped in her tracks. It was imperative that Fluke did not find out that Mickey had survived the attack! She thought for a moment. This whole case had been riddled with deception; would one more hurt?

Picking up her step, she went down to the main office to report Yvonne Collins’s observations regarding the mood on the Carborough, then hurried back to her office.

It was a big and risky chance to take, but if Mickey Smith’s home life was as bad as she’d been led to believe, then it could just be the answer. She sat back and considered how she would go about it. One thing she was pretty certain about was that Sergeant Easter would back her to the hilt. Yes, to save the boy’s life, she would allow a rumour to spread that Mickey had not survived. Then she would spirit him to safety, until she had the Fluke banged up.

A small smile spread across her face. She could feel it in her bones that they were getting closer to him, and if they found him, please God, they’d also find Frankie Doyle.

‘He’s not at home, ma’am. And his family didn’t seem unduly worried about him. Marcus is nineteen, and he’s a law unto himself, apparently. We’ve left a message for him to ring the station, if and when he gets back, but I suspect my card is already in the dustbin.’

‘Thanks for trying, Yvonne. Are you continuing with your search for your snout?’