Kiley reached his cup from the floor. “Terry, he knows where her parents live? Hertfordshire, you said.”

“I suppose he might.”

“You don’t think Rebecca and the children might still be there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All the same, if you had an address…”

“I should have it somewhere.”

“Later will do.”

“No trouble, I’ll get it now.”

“Let me,” Jennie said.

With a small sigh, Mary pushed herself up from the chair. “I’m not an invalid yet, you know.”

She came back with a small diary, a number of addresses pencilled into the back in a shaky hand. “There, that’s them. Harpenden.”

Kiley nodded. “And this,” he said, pointing, “that’s where Rebecca lives now?”

A brief nod. West Bridgford, Nottingham. He doubted if Rebecca had joined the ranks of disheartened County supporters, all the same.

“Thanks,” he said, finishing copying the details into his notebook and passing back the diary.

“A waste of time, though,” Mary said, defiantly. “That’s not where he’ll be.”

Kiley nodded. Why was it mothers insisted on knowing their sons better than anyone, evidence to the contrary? He remembered his own mother-”Jack, I know you better than you know yourself.” Occasionally, she’d been right; more often than not so wide of the mark it had driven him into a frenzy.

His gaze turned to the pictures on the wall. “Terry’s father…”

“Cancer,” Mary said. “Four years ago this March.” She gave a slow shake of the head. “At least he didn’t live to see this.”

After a moment, Jennie got to her feet. “I’ll make a fresh pot of tea.”

Further along the balcony a door slammed, followed by the sounds of a small dog, excited, yelping, and children’s high-pitched voices; from somewhere else the whine of a drill, someone’s television, voices raised in anger.

Kiley leaned forward, the movement focussing Mary’s attention. “Jennie said your son had been acting, well, a bit strangely…”

He waited. The older woman plaited her fingers slowly in and out, while, out of sight, Jennie busied herself in the kitchen.

“He couldn’t sleep,” she said eventually. “All the time he was here, I don’t think he had one decent night’s sleep. I’d get up sometimes to go to the lavatory, it didn’t matter what time, and he’d be sitting there, in the dark, or standing over by the window, staring down. And then once, the one time he wasn’t here, I was, well, surprised. Pleased. That he was sleeping at last. I tiptoed over and eased open the door to his room, just a crack. Wanted to see him, peaceful.” Her fingers stilled, then tightened. “He was cross-legged on top of the bed, stark naked, staring. Staring right at me. As if, somehow, he’d been waiting. And that gun of his, his rifle, he had it right there with him. Pointing. I shut the door as fast as I could. I might have screamed or shouted, I don’t know. I just stood there, leaning back, my eyes shut tight. I couldn’t move. And my heart, I could feel my heart, here, thumping hard against my chest.”

Slowly, she released her hands and smoothed her apron along her lap. Jennie was standing in the doorway, silent, listening.

“I don’t know how long I stayed there. Ages, it seemed. Then I went back to my room. I didn’t know what else to do. I lay down but, of course, I couldn’t sleep, just tossing and turning. And when I asked him, in the morning, what kind of a night he’d had, he just smiled and said, ‘All right, Mum, you know. Not too bad. Not too bad at all.’ And drank his tea.”

Jennie stepped forward and rested her hands on the older woman’s shoulders.

“You will find him, won’t you?” Mary said. “You’ll try. Before he does something. Before something happens.”

What was he supposed to say?

“I can’t pay very much, you know. But I will, what I can.” She rummaged round in her bag. “Here. Here’s twenty pounds left over from my pension. I can give you more later, of course.”

Kiley took ten and gave her the other ten back.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

“Bless you.”

“Terry,” Jennie said. “What do you think?”

They were walking along the disused railway line that ran east from Crouch Hill towards Finsbury Park, grassed over now to make an urban footpath, the grass itself giving way to mud and gravel, the sides a dumping ground for broken bicycles and bundles of free newspapers no one could be bothered to deliver.

“I think he’s taken a lot of stress,” Kiley said. “Seen things most of us wouldn’t even like to consider. But if he stays away there’s always the risk of arrest, dishonourable discharge. Even prison. My best guess, he’ll get himself to a doctor before it’s too late, take whatever time he needs, report back with a medical certificate and a cartload of pills. That way, with any luck, he might even hang on to his pension.”

“And if none of that happens?”

A blackbird startled up from the undergrowth to their left and settled again on the branches of a bush a little further along.

“People go missing all the time.”

“People with guns?”

Kiley shortened his stride. “I’ll go out to Harpenden first, make sure they’re not still there. Terry could have been in touch, doing the same thing.”

“I met her once,” Jennie said. “Rebecca.” She made a face. “Sour as four-day-old milk.”

Kiley grinned. They walked on, saying little, just comfortable enough in each other’s company without feeling really at ease, uncertain how far to keep walking, when to stop and turn back.

The house was to the north of the town, take a left past the golf club and keep on going; find yourself in Batford, you’ve gone too far. Of course, he could have done the whole thing on the phone, but in these days of so much cold calling, conversations out of the blue were less than welcome. And Kiley was attuned to sniffing around; accustomed, where possible, to seeing the whites of their eyes. How else could you hope to tell if people were lying?

The house sat back, smug, behind a few straggly poplars and a lawn with too much moss in it for its own good. A mud-splashed four-wheel drive sat off to one side, the space in front of the double garage taken up by a fair-sized boat secured to a trailer. How far, in God’s name, Kiley wondered, were they from the sea?

The doorbell played something that sounded to Kiley as if it might be by Puccini, but if he were expecting the door itself to be opened by a Filipino maid in a starched uniform, or even a grim-faced au pair, he was mistaken. The woman appraising him was clearly the lady of the house herself, a fit-looking fiftyish with a fine tan and her hair swept up into what Kiley thought might be called a French roll-or was that twist? She was wearing cream trousers, snug at the hips, and a grey marl sweater with a high collar. There were rings on most of her fingers.

“Mr. Kiley?”

Kiley nodded.

“You’re very prompt.”

If he were a dog, Kiley thought, she would be offering him a little treat for being good. Instead she held out her hand.

“Christina Hadfield.”

Beneath the smoothness of her skin, her grip was sure and firm.

“Please come in. I’m afraid my husband’s not here. Some business or other.”

As he followed her through a square hallway busy with Barbour jackets, green Wellingtons, and walking boots, the lines from one of his favourite Mose Allison songs came to mind.

I know her daddy got some money

I can tell by the way she walks

The room they went into sported two oversized settees and a small convention of easy chairs and you could have slotted in most of Mary Anderson’s flat with space to spare. High windows looked out into the garden, where someone, out of sight, was whistling softly as he-or she-tidied away the leaves. Presumably not Mr. H.