When he looked up, she was lost.

‘Fireclay?’

‘They made ceramics,’ he said. ‘Bricks, pots, plates, that kind of thing.’

This wasn’t getting him very far.

‘OK. So, these cases normally resolve themselves. Does he drive? Has he got a vehicle at the moment?’

‘He’s got mine. He borrows it.’

‘Model, registration?’

She coughed. A big loop of phlegm crackled in her throat. She swallowed it back down.

‘Toyota something. It’s purple.’

‘Number plate?’

She came close to a smile, then looked for an ashtray. There was a saucer at her feet halfway under the sofa. She pulled it out and used that.

‘Never mind. I’ll find it,’ he said. ‘The car’s registered in your name, at this address?’

‘Aye.’

‘And he uses it to do what? Does he have a job?’

That semi-smile again.

‘You know what he does.’

‘Full-time, is it? He sells drugs, nothing else?’

‘Needs a car.’

He was losing patience.

‘So, Jane Shaw, here’s the thing. Your son’s a grown man. And he’s only been gone two days. Tell me, why am I here on a Thursday evening, when I should be at home tucking into a Sainsbury’s cottage pie for one and cracking open a nice bottle of Côtes du Rhône?’

She took the can and drank what remained of the cider.

‘’Cos he hasn’t paid his rent.’

‘That’s why you rang the police?’

Her head was unsteady, but she was working to keep it stable. She was drunk, but there was a jumpiness to her, hidden somewhere beneath the languid movement of her body.

‘He’s not here, is he? I got the right.’

‘And does he supply you with anything? To pay his rent?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘So you’re drinking cheap cider as a substitute? What are we talking about? What do you use?’

‘Use? Owt. Owt I can get.’

He shifted forward in his seat, considering a charge of wasting police time. But her son had been officially reported as missing. Call it a catch twenty-two. Call it bullshit. He had no choice.

‘When did he last answer his phone?’

‘Tuesday.’

She recited his number from memory with some difficulty. Joe dialled it into his own phone and called. Unavailable.

‘Got any recent photos?’

She twisted on the sofa, pulled a phone from her pocket. Juggling her cigarette and the phone, she made an attempt to find the photos.

‘Here,’ she said, finally passing it across to him.

Android, like he used to have. Easier to find stuff than on his bloody iPhone. He opened the image gallery and flicked through the most recent ones. There he was, Craig Shaw, ugly and unimpressive, a selfie with his mum in Nando’s. There were a few other shots taken in similar surroundings, Craig eating a burger, Craig drinking a beer, Craig pulling a stupid face and pointing at it with both index fingers, as if otherwise you might miss it.