“You didn’t see her leaving? Her and the children?”

“Can’t say as I did.”

“And there hasn’t been anybody else hanging round? A man?”

“Look, what is this? Are you the police or what?”

Kiley tried for a reassuring smile. “Nothing like that. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, you could try next-door the other side, they might know something. Or the fruit and veg shop back on Melton Road, I’ve seen her in there a time or two, chatting like.”

Kiley thanked her and rang the next-door bell, but there was no one home. Between serving customers, the fruit and veg man was happy enough to pass the time of day, but could provide nothing in the way of useful information.

There was a narrow alley running down behind the houses, mostly taken up with green wheelie bins; a low gate gave access to a small, square yard. The rear curtains were pulled partway across.

Through the glass Kiley could see the remains of a sliced loaf, left unwrapped beside the sink; a tub of Flora with no lid; a pot of jam; a wedge of cheese, unwrapped. A child’s coat lay bunched on the floor; a chair on its side by the far wall. Signs of unseemly haste.

The back door seemed not to be sitting snug in its frame. When Kiley applied pressure with the flat of his hand it gave a few milli-metres, loose on its hinges, rattled, then stuck. No key, Kiley guessed, turned in the lock, but bolted at the top. A swift kick would have it open.

He hesitated, uncertain what to do.

Dave Prentiss’s number was in his mobile; Prentiss, whom he’d worked with as a young DC when he’d first made it into plain clothes, and now in line for commander.

“Dave? Hi! It’s Jack. Jack Kiley… No, fine, thanks. Yes, grand… Listen, Dave, you don’t happen to know anyone up in Nottingham, do you? Someone you’ve worked with, maybe? Might be willing to give me the time of day.”

Resnick had been up since before five, Lynn heading up some high-powered surveillance and needing to be in place to supervise the changeover, a major drugs supplier their target and kudos all round if they could pull it off. Resnick had made them both coffee, toast for himself, a rye loaf he’d picked up on the way home the day before, Lynn crunching her way through Dorset muesli with skimmed milk and a sliced banana.

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” she’d said. “Get another couple of hours.”

She’d kissed him at the door, the morning air cold against her cheek.

“You take care,” he’d said.

“You too.”

One of the cats wandered in from outside, sampled an early breakfast, and, despite the presence of a cat flap, miaowed to be let out again.

Instead of taking Lynn ’s advice, Resnick readied the smaller stovetop pot and made himself fresh coffee. Easing back the curtains in the living room, the outside still dark, he sat thumbing through the previous night’s Evening Post, listening to Lester Young. Would he rather have been out there where Lynn was, the heart of the action, so called? Until recently, yes. Now, with possible retirement tapping him on the shoulder, he was less sure.

He was at his desk by eight, nevertheless, breaking the back of the paperwork before it broke him. Dave Prentiss rang a little after eleven and they passed a pleasant enough ten minutes, mostly mulling over old times. There was a lot of that these days, Resnick thought.

At a quarter to twelve, an officer called up from reception to say a Jack Kiley was there to see him. He got to his feet as Kiley entered, extending his hand.

“Jack.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Charlie.”

“Okay, then. Charlie.”

The two men looked at one another. They were of similar height, but with Resnick a good stone and half heavier, the buttons on his blue shirt straining above his belt. Both still had a fullish head of hair, Resnick’s darker and, if anything, a little thicker. Kiley, thinner-faced and a good half-dozen years younger, had a leaner, more athletic build. Resnick, in contrast, had the slightly weary air of a man who has spent too long sitting in the same comfortable chair. Balzic, Kiley thought for a moment, harking back to the book he’d been reading, Mario Balzic.

“Dave Prentiss said you might need a favour,” Resnick said.

“You could call it that.”

Resnick gestured towards a chair. “Better sit.”

Kiley gave him a succinct version of events, what he knew, what he feared.

“You think they might be inside?”

“I think it’s possible.”

Resnick nodded. There had been a case not too long ago, north of the city. A man who’d discovered his wife was having an affair with a colleague and was planning to leave him; he had smothered two of the children with a pillow, smashed their mother’s head open with a hammer, and left her bleeding on the kitchen floor. The police had found a third child hiding in the airing cupboard, limbs locked in fear.

There were other instances, too.

Almost a commonplace.

“You say the back door’s only bolted?”

“So it seems.”

“You didn’t go in yourself?”

“I thought about it. Thought it might not be such a great idea.”

Resnick considered, then reached towards the phone. “I’ll organise a car.”

“This could be a wild-goose chase,” Kiley said as they were descending the stairs.

“Let’s hope, eh?”

The driver was fresh-faced, carrot-haired, barely out of training. They’re not only getting younger, Kiley thought, this one can only just see over the top of the steering wheel.

In the back of the car, Resnick was studying Kiley intently. “Charlton Athletic, wasn’t it?” he said eventually.

Grinning, Kiley nodded.

“Cup game down at Meadow Lane,” Resnick said.

Another nod.

“90/91.”

“Yes.”

“A good season for us.”

“You had a good team.”

“Tommy Johnson.”

“Mark Draper.”

Resnick smiled, remembering.

“Good Cup year for you, wasn’t it?”

“Through to the sixth round. Spurs beat us 2-1 at White Hart Lane.”

“We should’ve stopped you sooner.”

“You had your chances.”

Kiley looked out through the window. Off licence. Estate agent. Delicatessen. He had spent most of the game on the bench and only been sent on for the last fifteen minutes. Before he could adjust to the pace, the ball had come to him on the edge of the area and, with the centre half closing in on him, he had let fly and, leaning back too far, his shot had ballooned over the bar. Then, a goal down and with less than five minutes to spare, he had nicked the ball away from the fullback, cut inside, and, with only the goalie to beat, had skewed it wide. At the final whistle he had turned away disgusted as the Notts players ran towards their fans in triumph.

“All a long time ago,” Resnick said. “Fifteen years.”

“And the rest.”

“Think about it much?”

Kiley shook his head. “Hardly at all.”

The car swung round into Manvers Road and they were there. Still no one was answering the door. Round at the back, Resnick hesitated only a moment before putting his shoulder to the door, once, twice, before the bolt snapped free. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, Kiley following. Nothing had been moved. The cloth dog, two shades of brown, still sat, neglected, in the hall. The front room was empty and they turned back towards the stairs. A chill spread down the backs of Resnick’s legs and along his arms. The stairs creaked a little beneath his weight. A child’s blue cardigan lay, discarded, on the landing. The door to the main bedroom was closed.

Drawing a slow breath, Resnick turned the handle. The bed had been hastily made; the wardrobe doors stood open, and several garments had slid from their hangers to the floor. There was no one there.

They turned back towards the other room, its door ajar.