The woman at the door was bent down as she came to the counter, holding a child’s hand. A small brown-haired boy, a toddler turning into a child. He pulled his hand away and ran over to the break at the side of the counter, chubby arms pumping at his sides, head down.

‘Watch this,’ said Harris, licking his lips.

Aamir Anwar bent towards the child, hands on his knees, craning indulgently towards the child who gave him a reluctant kiss on the beard. Anwar stood up, holding his hand over the kiss, delighted with the boy and then with a flick of his fingers waved the boy to the sweetie rack.

The mother was facing the camera now and didn’t look too pleased about it. Her arms were crossed but she didn’t interfere as the boy grabbed two packets of Skittles, a Milky Way, small packets of jelly sweeties, cradling them in his arms, looking at the old man to check that it was OK. Aamir raised his hands in mock-shock, said something the child didn’t understand and then chortled happily to himself.

And then the visit was over. The woman took the sweets from the child, put them on the counter where he couldn’t see them, edited the pile by pushing some of the packets over to the side, and spoke briefly but seriously to Aamir before unwrapping and giving the boy the Milky Way bar and putting the rest in her handbag. Nice bag, thought Morrow, plain beige leather, big shoulder bag, lots of pockets.

‘Now watch this,’ said Harris.

Aamir kissed the child’s head and followed them to the door of the shop, standing in the opened doorway to wave them off, smiling to himself when he got back behind the counter and climbed back onto his chair. Johnny Lander came back and they sat silently, the smile lingering on Aamir’s face.

‘Is he not allowed friends?’ asked Morrow.

Harris looked at her. ‘They never paid for the sweeties.’

She scratched her chin. Harris was right. The woman pocketed the sweets and left. ‘So…?’

‘Boss, d’ye know the profit margins these shops work on? They never paid for the sweeties. If that’s not his grand wean, it’s his wean.’

Johnny Lander assumed his customary position at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister to watch them coming up. He was dressed as before but noted the rush in their steps and waited for them in the close, stiff as if awaiting news. He looked anxiously from Morrow to Harris. ‘You’ve not found him?’

‘No,’ said Morrow.

Lander held his chest and slumped. ‘For Pete’s sake, the way ye came bombing up the stairs there…’

‘No, Mr Lander, we haven’t found Mr Anwar.’

‘What are you thinking then…?’

‘No, we’ve every reason to believe he’s alive and well.’

‘Thank God for that, anyway.’ Relief seemed to have made him forget his manners and they stood for a moment looking blankly at each other in the cold close.

Morrow stepped towards the door. ‘Can we come in for a minute?’

‘Oh, aye, sorry.’ He jumped in front of her, holding the door open for her to come into the hallway. ‘’Scuse me.’

She stepped in and walked into the orderly living room. Lander had been reading the local paper when the door buzzed, drinking a mug of tea and eating three biscuits set out on a side plate, everything orderly, and arranged around his armchair. The electric fire had a bar on as well and the room was cosy.

He shut the front door behind them. ‘This is a hell of a thing, this waiting, isn’t it?’ he said.

Morrow reached into her bag and brought out the clumsy video camera that belonged to the department. ‘Mr Lander, can you tell me who this is?’

He stood close to her as she played the video of the woman in the shop. To save time Harris had just filmed the tape from the TV screen and the definition was even worse than before. Lander watched to the end.

‘Who is this woman?’

‘Lily. That’s Lily.’

Morrow looked at him. ‘Who is Lily to Mr Anwar?’

She could see it was awkward for him. He wanted to help in any way he could but his loyalty was in the way. He looked out of the window and hummed for a moment before taking a sharp breath. The conflict made him cringe. ‘Can I give you her address and you can ask her yourself?’

‘Sure.’

He gave them the address, knew it off the top of his head and he gave them good directions too. It wasn’t five minutes away by car, he said.

As they were leaving, as an afterthought before she put her notebook away, Morrow asked for Lily’s surname.

‘Tait,’ said Lander. ‘Lily Tait.’

The house was less than half a mile from the shop, straight along the road headed away from the city. Morrow noted that almost any journey to the town would have meant driving past the shop.

They pulled up in the street behind a black and silver Range Rover with stick-on window shades and a ‘Baby on Board’ sign hanging in the back window, and looked up a steep path to a grand, semi-detached house. In front of it, the garden was carefully planted with seasonal flowers and shrubs.

Morrow and Harris took the path up to the front door. Though the house was elegant blond sandstone someone had added a wooden porch which had worn badly. Brown paint was weathered and peeling, the door on the outside flimsy glass. They could see shoes inside and a child’s blue and red trike. Lined up along the rotting windowsills someone was growing herbs and small bedding trays were set out on a trestle table near the back, making use of the sunlight.

Harris couldn’t find a bell so he tried the door and found it open. They walked up to the front door proper, a grand Victorian window with the outline of an urn etched on the glass.

Lily Tait opened the door. Both Morrow and Harris knew the Taits. No one in Glasgow could fail to know the father; he was pictured in the local papers every time a gangster was found murdered, but Lily didn’t look like one of them at all. She was tall and slender, dressed in a huge mustard jumper with moth holes on the arm, and cut-off denim shorts. She looked gorgeous. Morrow could see Harris ogling her spectacular brown legs and painted toe nails. And yet there, in the roundness of the eyes, in the square set of the shoulders, she could see some small echo of Lily’s background. It was the curse of aspiration, the next generation were better fed, educated beyond the grasp of their own parents.

Behind Lily in the pale grey hall a sulky three-year-old peered out at them, hanging off the waxed balustrade of the staircase. Beyond him the hallway led through to a bright, cheerful kitchen.

‘Lily?’

She smiled out at them. ‘Yeah, can I help you?’

The child, seeing their dark suits and formal stance, lost interest and ran off into the kitchen.

Morrow introduced herself and Harris. ‘We’re investigating the kidnap of Mr Aamir Anwar. Can we come in and talk to you?’

‘Oh, gosh, yes of course.’ She swung the door open and welcomed them into the house. ‘Have you heard anything about Aamir? Is he home?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

‘Come in, come in.’ She led them through to the kitchen and offered them seats at a pine table littered with cups and children’s drawings and bills. ‘Bit chaotic before the cleaner gets here,’ she said, sweeping the rubble over to one end. The boy was sitting in a miniature red armchair in the corner, drinking from a sipper cup, watching them and looking cross.

Lily slipped into a kitchen chair across from them. ‘So, how can I help?’

‘Well,’ Morrow took her notebook out for show, ‘your name came up a couple of times and we wondered if we could talk to you about your relationship with Mr Anwar.’

She looked a little uncomfortable and glanced at the little prince in the armchair. ‘OK.’

‘How did you meet?’

She shrugged. ‘At school.’

Morrow looked at her, ‘You were at school…’

‘Omar and Billal, yeah. Same year as Billal.’