‘Those kids,’ said Fleet. ‘Ben, Isaac. Melissa and Lance. Even Richardson. Do you think if … I don’t know. If Isaac had known his father loved him … Or if Ben’s family had given the kid a proper chance …’ He trailed off, aware he hadn’t finished his question, but not quite sure how to end it.

Nicky answered him anyway, and Fleet had a sense she was drawing on her own experiences as well. ‘I think it would have made all the difference,’ she said.

Fleet found himself smiling. He was on the verge of telling Nicky what he had in mind, when there was a tap at the window in the door.

Fleet turned, and saw – of all people – Manish Apte. The man Fleet knew only as Webb was lurking in the background, transfixed as ever by his phone. Apte beamed, as though he and Fleet were old friends, and waved for him to come outside.

‘Christ,’ Fleet muttered. ‘What are they doing here?’

Nicky was trying to see past Fleet.

‘Is that the PCC? Who’s the scruffy bloke behind him?’

‘That’s our friend from the Home Office. I’m not even sure he’s fully human. At a guess, I’d put him as one part snake and two parts iPhone.’ He smiled at Nicky’s snigger. ‘I’d better go and see what they want.’

‘Boss …’ said Nicky, and Fleet turned back.

‘I know, I know,’ he said, sounding even to his ear like a surly teenager. ‘Play nice.’

Nicky smiled mischievously. ‘Actually, boss – and given that you’ve got licence to say whatever you want right now – I was going to suggest you tell them to go to hell.’

ONE WEEK LATER

Sunday 3 November, 10.55 a.m.

Fleet stood facing the familiar blue door, his hand raised to ring the bell. He’d come this far, and still he hesitated, succumbing to a nervousness he hadn’t anticipated.

The surroundings, oddly, didn’t help. He knew this street like he knew the one on which he’d grown up, and aside from a few trees that had been planted where others had been cut down, and a car or two he didn’t recognise in the neighbours’ driveways, it was barely any different from the last time he’d been here. The house was unaltered, too. Again, it was as familiar to him as his childhood home. He’d dug the flowerbeds beside him, laid the slabs in the path below his feet, put the paint on the door in front of him himself. Although, it was beginning to flake, he noticed. A physical sign of how, even though he might have belonged here once, enough time had passed that he might as well be a stranger.

Which made him question – again – what he was doing here in the first place. He’d had his chance and he’d blown it. Except … things had changed. Hadn’t they? He had.