‘No,’ he said, gazing out at his fish. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Why?’

‘Nothing. Just wondering.’

The kid had already hoovered up her juice and two scones and was looking slightly more animated. Her silver tiara had tilted and her mouth was smeared with raspberry jam. The wand was resting on the sofa next to her. She made fists with her hands and then opened them up into stars. This seemed to be the ultimate sign of approval. She picked up the wand again, returned to duty.

‘Careful with that,’ Harry Reynolds said, smiling indulgently. ‘Don’t want you casting any spells.’

Courtney stared at him.

‘She’s a right chatterbox, isn’t she?’ Harry Reynolds said. ‘She’s all there, is she?’

‘Of course she is,’ Tracy said crossly. She dabbed at the raspberry jam on Courtney’s face with a tissue, to no effect. There were also archaeological remnants of tuna roll, doughnut and chocolate. Tracy realized that when she was in the supermarket again she would have to take it to the next level. Wet Wipes.

‘So . . . long time no see, Superintendent,’ Harry Reynolds said. ‘Both civilians now, eh? Another scone?’

‘No, thanks. Well, maybe. Go on then. Are you really out of the game, Harry?’

‘I’m over seventy,’ Harry Reynolds said. ‘My wife died since I last saw you. Cancer. I nursed her to the end, died in my arms. But I can’t complain, I’ve got a wonderful daughter, Susan, and the grandkids stay over all the time. I spoil them rotten, but why not? Used to be different in my day, a clip round the ear and bread and dripping for your tea if you were lucky . . .’

Tracy could feel herself nodding off. Wondered if Harry Reynolds would mind – wondered if he’d even notice – if she were to lie down on his bigger-than-a-cow sofa and have a little snooze.

‘. . . and, of course, they come every Sunday for a big roast, all the trimmings. I like to make a proper pudding – fruit pie, steamed sponge, jam roly-poly. Hardly anyone does that any more, do they? Yorkshire puddings – who makes them any more?’

Tracy could almost smell the scent of fatty roasting meat and overcooked vegetables. For a second she was back in the bungalow in Bramley, the dead air of Sunday mornings, her mother ‘partaking’ of a small schooner of sherry.

‘You used to think of Sunday lunch as an immovable feast,’ Harry carried on. ‘Time immemorial, you didn’t think it would be replaced by a pizza or takeaway from the Chinky. No wonder this country’s going to the dogs.’

Tracy bit into another scone to keep herself awake. She felt as if she’d accidentally wandered into the middle of a Werther’s Original advert. Did all criminals turn soft if they survived to old age? (Did police detectives? Probably not.) Maybe they could just move in with Harry Reynolds now that he’d transformed from career criminal into twinkly – albeit fascist and racist – granddad. How many bedrooms in this house? Four at least. Plenty. They could make themselves scarce at the weekends, or Courtney could stay and play with Brett and Ashley.

‘Is this your kiddy?’ Harry Reynolds asked. The tone was off-hand, pleasant, but suddenly there was less of the whole twinkling thing going on.

‘I’m here on business,’ Tracy said.

‘I thought you said you were retired, Superintendent.’

‘Different kind of business,’ Tracy said.

The shopping they had bought this morning in the supermarket was still in the boot of the Audi. Tracy imagined anything fresh in there slowly rotting, turning to mush in the plastic bags. It was mostly stuff to take with them to the holiday cottage. Self-catering – you always bought five times what you needed. No way was she cooking tonight.

‘Let’s go out for our tea,’ she said to Courtney once they were both strapped in the Audi. Courtney nodded, kept on nodding. A nodding dog. ‘You can stop now,’ Tracy advised her. The nodding slowed down. Stopped.

Before setting off Tracy listened to her voicemail, dreading bad news from Barry. Message one. It’s Barry,Tracy. There’s been a bloke down the station looking for you. Says you’ve been left money in a will by an aunt in Salford. I know you don’t have an aunt in Salford or anywhere else so I don’t know what his game is. Message two. Barry again. Says his name’s Jackson something or other. Mean anything to you? Give us a call. Message three. Claims he’s a private detective. Think he’s lying. He’s staying at the Best Western, the one next to the Merrion Centre. He gave me his card but I’ve lost it.

Nobody could invest the words ‘private detective’ with as much scorn as Barry. Jackson? Name meant nothing at all to her. Was he after the kid? Had he been sent to get her back? She was going to give him a wide berth whoever he was.

There was a grey Avensis flitting in and out of the rear-view mirror. Tracy was sure it was the same car that had been parked near them in the supermarket. She’d noticed it because of the pink rabbit hanging from the rear-view mirror. ‘Air-freshener bunny’. Bloody stupid thing, she’d been given one by her ‘secret Santa’ last year. Secret Santas and vice didn’t go together somehow. The Avensis disappeared from view. Could it be the Jackson bloke?

‘Keep an eye out for a grey car,’ she said to Courtney. Did kids her age know all the colours? Could the kid sing the whole rainbow?

‘Do you know what colour grey is?’

‘It’s the colour of the sky,’ Courtney offered.

Tracy sighed. Therapist would have a field day with this kid.

They ate supper in the local Chinese. The kid peered closely at the menu and Tracy said, ‘Can you read, Courtney?’

‘No.’ Courtney shook her head and continued to examine the menu.

She proceeded to dig her way through a plate of Singapore noodles. ‘I think there’s a fat kid inside you trying to get out,’ Tracy said. Courtney paused between mouthfuls and stared at Tracy. A few stray noodles hung out of her mouth, like a walrus’s moustache. ‘Not literally,’Tracy said. She sighed and dished out more steamed jasmine rice. ‘My fat kid escaped a long time ago.’

When they finished, not before Courtney had packed a plate of banana fritters with ice cream into her hollow legs, Tracy paid the bill with two twenties peeled off her roll of thirty thousand but raking in vain through her purse for some change, said to Courtney, ‘I haven’t got enough for a tip.’

Courtney stared at her, doing her imitation of a sphinx, and then delved into the depths of her pink backpack and retrieved the purse with the monkey’s face on it and took out four one-pence pieces that she placed carefully on the saucer, muttering, ‘One, two, three, four,’ under her breath.

‘How high can you count, Courtney?’

‘A million,’ Courtney said promptly.

‘Really?’

Courtney held up her left hand and slowly counted off four fingers and a thumb, ‘One–two–three–four–a million.’

‘That’s it?’

Courtney stared steadfastly at her. Tracy could see a noodle lodged between her front teeth. Eventually she held up the index finger on her right hand and said, ‘A million and one.’ She hadn’t finished with her generous tip. She was peering in the backpack, finally coming up with the nutmeg, which she placed with the coins. The waiter removed the saucer with waiter-like inscrutability and like a magician produced a fortune cookie and handed it ceremoniously to Courtney. She placed it carefully in her backpack without cracking it open.

‘Let’s go home,’ Tracy said.

Before they got anywhere near the house in Headingley, Tracy’s phone rang. Her heart sank the moment she heard the strident rant at the other end. Kelly Cross wanting a pound of flesh that Tracy didn’t even realize she was owing. She could take it. She could take whatever she wanted. Sometimes you just had to step up. Sleep, eat, protect. Especially the protect bit.