“So you know Jane Pym?” one said to Molly. “She was my supervisor when I did a student placement here. She’s a brilliant officer. She taught me an amazing lot! But I can’t stand her husband. Talk about arrogant! Have you heard the way he talks to her?” She lowered her voice in an excited whisper. “I wouldn’t be surprised, you know, if he didn’t beat her up. When I was doing my training here, I’m sure she had a bruised face.”

“Nonsense,” said another, sensing immediately the opportunity for gossip. “He doesn’t beat her up. He might be a sadist with the kids at school, but he wouldn’t dare touch Jane. You probably caught her on one of her bad mornings. She’d have had a hangover. I don’t know any other woman who can drink like Jane. Don’t you remember that party at the Housing Office last New Year?”

Then Molly was entertained by all the old stories which must have been repeated every time there was an audience. She was told about the senior who was so drunk that he tripped down the witness stand steps on his way to give evidence in court, about the local police superintendent who dressed up in women’s clothes, about the parties they attended so they could at last forget clients and enjoy themselves.

She could have stayed all day listening to the warmth of their conversation, but they began slowly to drift away and back to work. She was thinking that she would have to admit defeat and leave, too, when the door was pushed open to reveal a probation officer who had been in court. His arms were full of files, and he stood for a moment helplessly, then tipped them in a heap on an empty chair. He was prematurely middle-aged, balding, with little round spectacles. His suit was crumpled and poorly fitting and was obviously only brought out for the days when he was on court duty. On his feet were brown suede desert boots.

By now only the typists were left in the tearoom. Three of them sat in a row, knitting. They wore almost identical blouses and cotton skirts. One looked up briefly as the man came in.

“Mike,” she said, “This is Mrs. Palmer-Jones. She’s looking for someone who remembers Greg Franks or Louis Rosco. Jo says we should help her.”

He poured stewed tea from a big brown pot, blinked, and looked at Molly.

“I remember Louis Rosco,” he said. “I did the original social enquiry report, visited him a couple of times in prison, and supervised him on parole for a couple of months when he first came out. I expect the papers were transferred to Cornwall. He came from there. He won’t be on parole now, though. It would have ended ages ago.”