“That’s nice,” said Annie, crouching. “What is it, a castle?”

“Prison,” said the five-year-old, and snickered.

“They learn young around here,” Annie muttered, standing up. “Mum and Dad in?”

“Dunno.”

Gerry knocked on the door, and they waited almost a full minute before anyone answered. They could hear the TV playing loudly inside, some overexcited sporting commentary, but nothing else. Eventually the door opened and a man in a grubby string vest stood in front of them. “Yeah? What is it?”

Annie flashed her warrant card. “Mr. Moffat?”

“No. Lenny Thornton.”

“Is Mr. Moffat at home?”

Thornton scratched his head. “Well, he was here maybe ten years or so ago, but it’ll be the missus you’re after. Well, the girlfriend. You know. Her name’s Moffat.”

“Mimsy?” said Gerry.

“Bloody hell, no, pet. That’s her young lass. Sinead’s her mother.” He had a strong Geordie accent. Annie was used to hearing it, but she could see Gerry struggling to understand.

“Is Sinead Moffat in, then?” As Annie spoke, she and Gerry were edging into the front room. Lenny Thornton edged back politely as they moved forward. Eventually they were able to shut the door behind them. The closed curtains let in a faint glow, but the main source of light was a large flickering TV screen showing an international football game. Maybe there was a big tournament on somewhere that Annie hadn’t heard about, but she thought it more likely the game was a repeat. When she saw who was playing, she knew it was. She had watched it several days ago.

“Sinead’s out,” said Thornton, “but you’s welcome to a cuppa, if you’s like.” He subsided into a well-worn armchair, lit a cigarette and gestured to a teapot and a cluster of stained mugs on the table under the window. “Kettle’s in the kitchen.”

“No, thanks.” Annie glanced around the room. It was untidy, with stacks of magazines and articles of clothing strewn here and there. An unpleasant odor hung about the place: cigarette smoke, old socks and boiled cabbage. Then there was Lenny Thornton.