It was another sultry evening, the heat still clinging and clammy, streetlamps haloed with eerie light. The estate was in shadow and already dark, as many of the lamps were out; either they had been vandalized or the council just couldn’t be bothered fixing them when they stopped working. The light was on in the front room of 14 Southam Terrace, and when Annie knocked on the door, Lenny Thornton answered briskly. He’d put on a T-shirt and jeans since their previous visit, but otherwise nothing much had changed. Johnny was asleep in his armchair, mouth open, snoring loudly. The TV was tuned to a golf tournament. No wonder Johnny was asleep, Annie thought.

“He took it badly,” Lenny said, nodding toward Johnny.

Annie wondered how he could tell. “So I see. You said Sinead’s at home?”

Lenny gestured toward the stairs. “In her room. Go easy, won’t you, hen. She’s a bit fragile. It’s still early days with the methadone.”

“Don’t worry. Seen anything of Albert yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

Annie and Gerry went upstairs. The bedroom was dimly lit by an orange-shaded bedside lamp, which cast shadows over the walls and ceiling as they entered. It was a bare room, with just a wardrobe, dressing table, chest of drawers and a small TV set on a table opposite the double bed. Maybe it was because of the rose-patterned wallpaper and soft lighting, but it seemed more of a woman’s room to Annie, and she couldn’t imagine a man like Lenny Thornton here in the bed. None of her business.

Sinead lay propped up on her pillows, smoking, staring into space, an overflowing ashtray on her belly. Her mascara was smeared, and she had clearly been crying. A number of screwed-up tissues lay on the bedspread and floor around her. The room smelled of skin moisturizer and cigarette smoke.