‘Can I . . . ?’ she started to ask him, and then the phone rang. She held up a hand and picked it up and started talking to someone who was probably her sister. Or some fucker, anyway, because it certainly wasn’t business. Maybe someone was trying to get through, worried to fuck about their elderly relative and needing to call. Meanwhile, here she was, chatting and smiling and talking about crap.

DS Farmer held his warrant card under her nose and she stopped smiling. Then he took the phone out of her hand and replaced it on the cradle.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘I believe you have a resident here by the name of James Maguire? I’d like to speak to him please.’

‘Of course,’ she said, suddenly flustered. ‘Upstairs. Fourth on the left.’ Then, as if it pleased her, she added: ‘You won’t get much sense out of him, you know.’

Farmer went on up, turning left at the top. He counted off three doors – all closed – then stopped at the fourth – open. He saw a single bed in one corner of the room, a red-shaded lamp on an oak cabinet beside it. An old man with a vast thatch of white hair was sitting in a high-backed chair in front of a large bay window, his thin shoulders hunched over. He was wearing a thick checked dressing gown.

Farmer tapped on the door, but the man didn’t turn his head. Farmer walked in. He went over to the bay window where the sunlight poured in on the old man, stepped around so that he could look at the man’s face, which was deeply lined.

‘Mr James Maguire?’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the wide windowsill facing the older man. He pulled out his warrant card and held it out for the man to see. ‘Police, sir. May I have a word with you? Would that be OK?’

‘Who are you?’ asked the old man.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Farmer.’ Farmer put the warrant card away. ‘I wonder if you can help me? We are trying to trace your son, Donny Maguire. He hasn’t been in to work or home for some time and we are becoming concerned. Have you seen him recently? Has he been here in the last fortnight?’

The man’s mouth worked for a moment. Then he said: ‘Are you Donny?’

‘No, sir. I’m DS Farmer. I’m looking for Donny.’

The man’s face twisted in confusion. ‘Is he here?’

‘I don’t know where he is. That’s why I came to see you. I thought you might know.’

‘Where’s Susan?’ the old man asked.

‘Who is Susan, sir?’

‘My wife of course! She’ll be here in a moment.’

‘Will your son come with her?’

‘What, William? William left. Years ago.’

‘No, sir. Donny.’

‘Who?’

Farmer stood up. ‘It doesn’t matter, sir. Thank you very much for your time.’

He went back along the corridor and down the stairs. The charm school graduate behind the desk was back on the phone again, talking about last night’s soap opera and shrieking with laughter. She looked up, flushed dull brick-red when she saw him there, and put a hand over the phone.