The guy glanced over, blinking. ‘Maughans? Got a first name?’ His ears stuck out, and there was a tiny cross tattoo on his neck. Middleweight, or light heavyweight.

‘Um, yeah. Kevin, or Michael.’

He laughed through his nose and rolled his shoulders back. He didn’t seem to want to stand still. ‘Michael Maughan. There’s one of them, to be sure.’ He cricked his neck, grinning. ‘What a pikey cunt.’ He held up his cigarette hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘Do you know where their site is?’

‘Site?’

‘Um, yeah. Their halting site.’ There’d been another article in the local papers, enough to learn the term.

He took a drag on his cigarette and looked over more sharply, before giving a jerking nod. ‘Your man’s gone indoors these days. Sold out.’ He mentioned an estate on the outskirts of the town. ‘Still makes him a pikey cunt,’ he called after Matty. ‘Tell that fecker he owes me money.’

Coophill Estate. A cul-de-sac of terraced council houses painted a dull peach, and several motorhomes parked outside them. In front of one, an old-style gypsy caravan seemed freshly painted, with an Irish flag poked into the hinge of the door. They’d been in the phone book after all, K. and M. Maughan.

The night had been spent in the Forest Park, half a tin of baked beans for dinner, trying to get any reception on the TV, and listening to the wind push at Shifty. There’d been a heaviness in Matty’s chest, the feeling of something coming. The same headache all morning, which a quick dip hadn’t cured.

Number 14 had a tired bed of tulips and a plastic cat on its side.

Matty knocked, turning immediately round to look at the yard opposite, a wide expanse of gravel and worn-away grass.

There was a muffled bump inside, someone calling and a higher voice calling back, before a shadow came towards the glass. The door opened.

It was a woman of fifty or so, brown and grey hair pulled up in a high, severe ponytail. A tanned, blotchy face. She had a baby on her hip. ‘Yes?’ She sounded harassed.

A breath, but no words came out. She’d sent a photo or two with the cards, years before, but Matty could hardly remember. ‘Is it – are you Maureen?’ The words lurched out.

She craned her head, looking at the street and the van. ‘Depends who’s asking.’ Her eyes fixed on Matty’s again, and something passed over her face, a fleeting light. Her mouth came open. ‘It’s not—’ She stepped down onto the concrete and peered, as if into a dark cave. ‘It’s not Matty, is it?’

The baby started crying.