He flew to Manchester later that morning, picked up a car and drove north. Jill had promised to get back to him within the hour, but he reached Skipton still with no message. Once upon a time, a week ago, he would have waited in a pub. It had now been five days without a drink and he needed these little victories. Which left him browsing the high street, where he bought a tea cake boasting a true Yorkshire recipe, before heading up to Skipton Castle. It had been his thing with his father.

He rang Saffron because he thought she’d appreciate a reminder.

‘I’m in Skipton. Just remembering Dad and his obsession with castles.’

‘Your father hated castles. It was our obsession, Bish. Yours and mine. Rochester, Pickering, that one down in Wales. Let’s do the Scottish castles one day, darling.’

Where were you? he wanted to ask, because he was tired and lonely and heartsick. ‘I’ll talk to you when I get home,’ he said.

Jill’s text finally came through. Alan Penney’s last known address was the council flat of his mother in Scarborough, a hundred miles north of Skipton. Bish got back in the car.

Mrs Penney had seen better days. Or perhaps this had been her life from the beginning. Perhaps her lot was set before she was even born. She had a hard face ravaged by booze or cigarettes or misfortune. She stood behind the screen door in a dressing gown, her eyes smudged with makeup that looked as though it belonged to the night before. They were outlined in a way that made them look small. Mean.

He contemplated whether to hand over his business card. Being a cop would get him through some doors, but not in this neighbourhood.

‘Is Alan here, Mrs Penney?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name’s Bish Ortley. I’m with the Home Office,’ he sort of lied, ‘and we believe Alan may be able to shed light on an incident that took place in Malham Cove back in 2002.’

She glared at him. ‘Home Office? With all those fancy computers and files?’

He tried to decide whether she was impressed.

‘Because the way I see it, Mr Bosh, whatever your name is, the Home Office would only have to put my son’s name in a computer to find out that he’s dead.’

Thanks, Jill.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Penney.’

‘No you’re not.’

Bish was getting a bit sick and tired of people challenging his truth. ‘Actually, yes I am,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. Because outliving your children is unnatural and no one deserves that.’

Too much information, Bish. He walked away. Another fucking dead end. Literally this time. Another broken person to add to his long list of acquaintances.

‘Why concern yourself with something that happened all that time ago?’ she called after him.

A question was good. A question meant she was willing to speak to him. He turned back. It got him through the door, and because poor Mrs Penney seemed to have had a shit of a life and a shit of a son, who she had loved, Bish shared the tea cake with her.