“I’m a driver, but never for the kids.”

“Why haven’t you gone to the police yet, with everything you know?”

“I have. But when you’ve done time, they’re not inclined to believe you. And I figured I’m more useful to Olive this way. I’ve been giving her enough information to help, but not enough to make her an accessory,” he said solemnly. “Besides, these people are cleverer than that—it will take more than me and a journalist to shut them down.”

“But you’ve given her enough to get the law changed . . .”

“Yes, enough to do that,” he said and sighed heavily.

She was still staring, thinking about her own experiences with the police, when he turned and caught her eye. A look passed between them, and she questioned again who Joe Stevenson really was: hero or villain, or something in between?

He slowed down and turned into a road where tall fences and overgrown hedges shielded the buildings behind, and only a few cars were parked in driveways. He pulled to a stop halfway down and turned the engine off, then leaned over the dashboard to survey the street.

Alice asked, “What now?”

“We go in, and I introduce you as Sarah Jones. Just stick to what we discussed.”

“Do you think they’ll believe me?”

“Let’s hope so. For both our sakes.”

“And you can’t just find out where she is?”

“No, I can’t. I’ve never asked about anyone before, and it will seem strange if I do it now. At least you have a reason for asking. I’ll vouch for you, but that’s all I can do.”

“And what will happen if they find out that it was you who helped me?”

His hands traced around the edge of the steering wheel, fingers running back and forth along the leather seams. “They won’t.”

“But if they do . . .”

He held her gaze. “Then it could be time to move on.” His expression didn’t give anything away, and he made to get out of the car.

“Why are you helping me?”

“You need to ask Olive that.”

“And what would she say?”

“She’d say that most children belong with their mother.”

“I agree, but what do you mean?”

“I mean that Olive has more reason than most for wanting these baby farmers behind bars.” His expression darkened. “She was a victim too as a child.”

The housing block was set among overgrown gardens, and it seemed as if the building was deserted, the majority of its windows and doors boarded up—until they drew closer. A group of women were hanging washing as children played in the dirt, but they barely took any notice as Alice and Joe wandered past. Washing lines stretched across corridors on the upper floors of the tenements, like bunting from a forgotten party, and Alice’s stomach twisted at the squalor she saw through the open doorways.