Yes, the senior said. She was back by then. But she hardly had time to get to know all the residents before they were all dispersed. The fire had left the hostel uninhabitable. It had been a dreadful time. There had been an enquiry, a lot of media fuss about safety standards. Luckily the enquiry had found that none of the probation officers had been to blame, but it had been a worrying time.

“You were in the hostel on the night of the fire?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” she said rather sharply, “though I don’t know what that has to do with the business now. It was my sleeping-in duty.”

“And you really don’t remember Greg Franks?” Molly said. “ He would have been young, rather cocky. His parents claim he was something of a hero at the fire.”

Joanna shook her head. “ I’m sorry,” she said. “ I don’t remember.”

“What about Louis Rosco?” Molly asked. “ He was in the hostel at the same time as Greg.”

But the senior seemed to have lost her enthusiasm for the conversation.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It was a difficult time for me. A new baby. Not much sleep. It all seems rather a blur now.”

Suddenly she seemed very eager to have the office to herself. She looked at her watch.

“The rest of the team will be having their tea break soon. Why don’t you join them? You might find someone who remembers the men you’re asking about and be prepared to talk to you informally.”

She lifted the telephone and asked the receptionist to take Mrs. Palmer-Jones to the tearoom.

“Make her welcome and give her all the help she needs,” Joanna said, and the automatic smile returned.

The tearoom was small and cramped, with a selection of ancient armchairs marked by cigarette burns and coffee stains. The window was tiny and protected by a metal grille, so an electric light burned continually. The room filled quickly with men and women. None, it seemed, had any qualms about helping her, but no one had any recollection of Greg Franks or Louis Rosco. They told her that if Rosco had been on parole, there must be a record somewhere of his probation officer. And one of them would have prepared a social enquiry report before he was sent away. Had she tried the office in Cornwall? If Louis was still on parole when he moved south, all his records would have been sent there. Molly began to think she had come on a wild-goose chase and settled just to recapture the pleasant memories of her life at work.

She sat in a lumpy old armchair, drinking tea, enjoying the familiar bitchiness of social work conversation. They had given all their energy and generosity to their clients and had no compassion left for their colleagues. They discussed divorce, adultery, and the office power games with relish.