“This woman,” Jennie said, “Mary. Mary Anderson. Lives near me. The flats, you know. She used to look after Alice before she started nursery. Just mornings. Alice loved her. Still does. Calls her Gran. She’s got this son, Terry. In the army. Queen’s Royal something-or-other, I think it is.”

“Lancers,” Kiley offered.

“That’s it. Queen’s Royal Lancers. They were out in Iraq. Till-what?-a month ago, something like that. End of last week, he should have gone back.”

“ Iraq?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I think so. But not, you know, straight off.”

“Report to the barracks first.”

Jennie nodded. “Yes.”

“And that’s what he didn’t do?”

She nodded again.

“AWOL.”

Jennie blinked.

“Absent without leave.”

“Yes.”

“Does she know where he is? His mum.”

“All this last week he was staying with her, her flat. Thursday morning, that’s when he was due to go back. All his kit there ready in the hall, wearing the uniform she’d ironed for him the night before. He just didn’t go. Stood there, not saying anything. Ages, Mary said. Hours. Then he went back into the spare room, where he’d been sleeping and just sat there, staring at the wall. Mary, she had to go out later, mid morning, not long, just to the shops. When she got back, he’d gone.”

“She’s no idea where?”

“No. There was no note, nothing. First, of course, she thought he’d changed his mind. Gone back after all. Then she saw all his stuff, his bag and that, all dumped down beside the bed. ‘Cept his uniform. He’d kept his uniform. And his gun.”

Kiley looked at her sharply.

“Mary had seen it, this rifle. Seen him cleaning it. She searched through everything but it wasn’t there. He must have took it with him.”

“She’s phoned the barracks to make sure…”

“They phoned her. When he didn’t show. They’d got her number, next of kin. She did her best to put them off, told them he’d been taken ill. Promised to get back in touch.” Jennie shook her head. “She’s worried sick.”

“He’s what? Twenty? Twenty-one?”

Jennie shook her head. “No, that’s it. He’s not some kid. Thirty-five if he’s a day. Sergeant, too. The army, it’s a career for him. Mary says it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do.”

“All the more reason to think he’ll turn up eventually. Come to his senses.”

Jennie was twisting a silver ring round and round on her little finger. “She said, Mary, before this happened, he’d been acting strange.”

“In what way?”

“You’d best ask her.”

“Look, I didn’t say…”

“Just talk to her…”

“What for?”

“Jack…”

“What?”

“Talk to her, come on. What’s the harm?”

Kiley sighed and eased his chair back from the desk. The man in the charity shop below was sorting through his collection of vinyl. The strains of some group Kiley vaguely remembered from his childhood filtered up through the board. The Easybeats? The Honeycombs? He could see why people would want to get rid of the stuff, but not why anyone would want to buy it again-not even for charity.

Jennie was still looking at him.

“How did you get here?” Kiley asked. “Drive?”

“Walked. Suicide Bridge.”

Kiley reached for the phone. “Let’s not tempt fate twice. I’ll get a cab.”

When the council named the roads on the estate after streets in New Orleans they couldn’t have known about Hurricane Katrina or its aftermath. Nonetheless, following Jennie through the dog shit and debris and up onto the concrete walkway, Kiley heard inside his head not the booming hip-hop bass or the occasional metallic shrill of electro-funk that filtered here and there through the open windows, but Dylan’s parched voice singing “The Levee’s Gonna Break.”

Mary Anderson’s flat was in the same block as Jennie’s but two storeys higher, coping missing at irregular intervals from the balcony, the adjacent property boarded up. A rubber mat outside the front door read Welcome, the area immediately around swept and cleaned that morning, possibly scrubbed. A small vase of plastic flowers was visible through the kitchen window.

Mary Anderson herself was no more than five-three or -four and slightly built, her neat grey hair and flowered apron making her look older than she probably was.

“This is Jack Kiley,” Jennie said. “The man I spoke to you about, remember? He’s going to help find Terry.”

Kiley shot her a look which she ignored.

“Of course,” Mary said. “Come in.” She held out her hand. “Jennie, you know where to go, love. I’ll just pop the kettle on.” Despite the cheeriness in her voice, there were tears ready at the corners of her eyes.

They sat in the lavender living room, cups of tea none of them really wanted in their hands, doing their best not to stare at the pictures of Terry Anderson that lined the walls. Terry in the park somewhere, three or four, pointing at the camera with a plastic gun; a school photograph in faded colour, tie askew; Terry and his dad on a shingle beach with bat and ball; a young teenager in cadet uniform, smart on parade. Others, older, head up and shoulders back, a different uniform, recognisable still as the little lad with the plastic gun. Bang, bang, you’re dead.

On the mantelpiece, in a silver frame, was a carefully posed shot of Terry on his wedding day-in uniform again and with a tallish brunette in white hanging on his arm, her eyes bright and hopeful, confetti in her hair. Arranged at either side were pictures of two young children, boy and girl, Terry’s own children presumably, Mary’s grandchildren.

Jennie’s cup rattled against its saucer, the small noise loud in the otherwise silent room.

“You’ve heard nothing from him?” Kiley said.

“Nothing.”

“Not since Thursday?”

“Not a thing.”

“And you’ve no idea…?”

She was already shaking her head.

“His family…” Kiley began, a nod towards the photographs.

“They separated, split up, eighteen months ago. Just after young Keiron’s fifth birthday. That’s him there. And Billie. I always thought it a funny name for a girl, not quite right, but she insisted…”

“Could he have gone there? To see them?”

“Him and Rebecca, they’ve scarce spoken. Not since it happened.”

“Even so…”

“He’s not allowed. Not allowed. It makes my blood boil. His own children and the only time he gets to see them it’s an hour in some poky little room with Social Services outside the bloody door.” Her voice wobbled and Kiley thought she was going to break down and surrender to tears, but she rallied and her fingers tightened into fists, clenched in her lap.

“You’ve been in touch all the same?” Kiley said. “With Rebecca, is it? To be certain.”

“I have not.”

“But…”

“Terry’d not have gone there. Not to her. A clean break, that’s what she said. Better for the children. Easier all round.” She sniffed. “Better for the children. Cutting them off from their own father. It’s not natural.”

She looked at him sternly, as if defying him to say she was wrong.

“How about the children?” Kiley asked. “Do you get to see them at all?”

“Just once since she moved away. This Christmas past. They were staying with her parents, Hertfordshire somewhere. Her parents, that’s different. That’s all right.” Anger made her voice tremble. “‘We can’t stop long,’ she said, Rebecca, almost before I could close the door. And then she sat there where you are now, going on and on about how her parents were helping her with the rent on a new house and how they were all making a fresh start and she’d be going back to college now that she’d arranged day care. And the children sitting on the floor all the time, too scared to speak, poor lambs. Threatened with the Lord knows what, I dare say, if they weren’t on their best behaviour. Little Billie, she came up to me just as they were going, and whispered, ‘I love you, Gran,’ and I hugged her and said, ‘I love you, too. Both of you.’ And then she hustled them out the door.”