The man who took down notes was the exact opposite of Leah-Leanne-Leona. He had sunken cheeks and a moustache like police wore in cop shows back in the ‘70s, the kind Tejendra watched on Channel Dave. He looked tired, as if nothing could ever surprise him again but he had to be ready for that time when the world might throw something new and hard at him. He was D. S. Milligan. Everett liked that. Leah-Leanne-Leona answered Everett's request, but Moustache Milligan fetched the water from the cooler in the corner of the room.

“So, Everett, the Institute of Contemporary Arts?” Leah-Leanne-Leona made it sound like the freakiest, most perverse place a dad could take a son; bordering on child abuse.

“It's his dad's idea,” Everett's mum said. First Everett phoned the police; second he phoned home. It had been bad. At first she wouldn't believe him. Kidnapped, on the Mall, on a Monday night, in the middle of the rush hour. He was making it up, attention seeking—that sort of thing didn't/couldn't happen. Not on the Mall. Not ten days before Christmas.

“Mum, I saw them take him.”

Then he was being malicious, getting at her. I know you blame me for your dad, Everett. He's not coming back. We have to get on with it. We have to get the family right, look after ourselves. I know how you feel. Don't you think I'm feeling things too?

“No. Mum, listen. It's not about feeling things. I saw them take him, on the Mall, in a big black Audi. Bike and everything.”

The worst was when he said he was in Belgravia police station. That made her voice go tight. And short. And sharp. The way it did when she wanted to make him feel bad. The shame. Had he no self-respect? He was no different from those Virdi boys. They were never out of police stations. God alone knew where she was going to find a lawyer this time of night. Maybe Milos. He was always good for a favour.

“Mum. Mum. Listen. I don't need a lawyer. I'm making a statement. That's all. They can't do anything unless you're there.”