As he stood there and knocked he felt the eyes of several people on him. Young, heavy-set adults who seemed to be there for no reason, nothing better to do, their front doors open, and them neither in nor out, just hanging around. He noted the gaudy colours of their casual, loose-fitting clothes, and it occurred to him that he, sporting a mid-grey Burton’s two-piece and a tie, was the one who looked out of place.

‘Mrs Shaw?’

‘Police?’ she said, standing well back from the door, which was open less than a foot.

‘Detective Sergeant Romano, Leeds CID. I’m here about Craig.’

‘You found him?’

‘I’ve only had his name an hour. Can I come in?’

The door opened wider, with her squarely behind it. Joe went inside, and the door closed again quickly.

She stank of smoke. The house did, but it came from her. A stale smell, one he knew well enough. Ex-smokers never forget. But here in the narrow entrance of the hall it was bitter and overpowering.

She was average height, and about fifty, he reckoned, but thin and drawn. You could have added another ten years to that and no one would have argued.

‘I’ve got some questions about your son.’

She lifted a hand. It seemed to shake. Even her arm was unsteady.

‘Front room?’ he asked.

She nodded, lowering her arm and searching for the wall behind her, palm flat against it. She was pissed. That explained the front door. She hadn’t wanted to open it too much because she was off her face.

He stepped into the front room and almost gagged. The stink of cigarettes was overlaid with an acrid stench of food, sweat and farts. He glanced at the windows, wondered how long it was since they’d been opened.

‘I don’t have anything to tell you, as of yet,’ he said, taking a seat on a large white leather sofa, one of two that took up most of the room, along with a huge TV in the corner, which was switched on, the volume turned down.

She made her way to the other sofa and eased herself down onto it, turning the TV off with a remote.

‘So, how long’s he been gone? Tuesday, is that right?’

‘Aye. Tuesday.’

‘You’ve rung around the hospitals?’

She nodded, then reached down to the floor for a can and took a drink. He didn’t recognize the brand.

‘Want one?’

He smiled. ‘Depends what it is.’

She took another gulp, almost grimacing.

‘Cider. Cheap stuff. I got a lager in the fridge.’

‘I’m all right, thanks.’

She manoeuvred the can back down to the floor with the deliberateness of someone trying to stay on the right side of comatose.

‘Sure?’ she said, gesturing towards the floor. ‘This stuff’s cheap as shit.’