“Shall I put the Krook lock on?” Wilson asked.

“Nah,” said Annie. “Don’t bother. What’s the point? It’s not likely to stop anyone around here if they want to drive off with a police car. Bolt cutters come with the territory.”

“Watch it, guv,” said Wilson. “I grew up on an estate like this. You’re maligning my social background. You can get done for that. It’s not politically correct.”

“Sorry. Is that right? I thought you grew up in the country. You seem to know plenty about mole catchers and so on.”

“Just familiarizing myself with the territory. I like to take an interest in many things.”

“You really grew up on an estate like this?”

“Worse.” Wilson adjusted his glasses. “In Sheffield. It’s not something I’d lie about, or brag about, either. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as ­people think. We were lucky. We had decent neighbors. Give you the shirt off their back, they would. Or off someone’s back, at any rate.”

Annie laughed. “Come on.”

They walked toward the lift and Wilson pressed the button.

“You know, if this were on telly,” Annie said, “the lift would be out of order, and we’d have to walk up eight flights of stairs through a gauntlet of drugged-­up hoodies flashing knives.”

“Or if it worked,” said Wilson, “it’d be covered in graffiti and stink of piss.”

The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open. The inside was covered in graffiti and stank of piss. They got in anyway. Annie held her nose and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The doors closed, but nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. After a moment’s panic—­Annie had always been claustrophobic in lifts—­the “doors open” button worked, and they got out and walked. In the fifth-­floor stairwell, they had to push their way through a gang of hoodies. Someone made a remark about Harry Potter after they had passed, and they all laughed. Wilson turned beet red and reached up to take off his glasses. Annie grabbed his elbow to stop him going back and thumping the one who had spoken. “Not worth it, Dougal. Not worth it. Easy does it. It’s probably just the glasses, you know.”

“Yes, guv,” he said through clenched teeth. “Think I’ll make an appointment with the optometrist tomorrow and get fitted with some contact lenses.”

“That should help,” Annie said. “And maybe if you could do something with your hair, and lose the wand . . .”

Wilson turned and started to glare at her, then his face broke into a smile. “Right. I’ll do that, too.”

“Here we are,” said Annie. “Eighth floor.”

They walked along the balcony between the windows and doors and the midriff-­high fence, past bicycles without wheels, a pram and an abandoned fridge almost blocking their path. It was a hell of a view, Annie had to admit. If you turned to the west, you could see over the railway tracks to Eastvale, the castle ruins, the market square, the river falls, and beyond that, Hindswell Woods and the rising slopes of the dales farther on, all tinged gray by mist and rain. She could also see Eastvale’s “millionaires’ row,” where Banks’s new girlfriend Oriana lived and where ­people paid a fortune for the same view. And a big house, of course. Perhaps a bit more peace and quiet and less crime, too.

Annie knocked on the door. A few moments later a young woman answered it on the chain and frowned at them. “Yes?” she said, nervously touching her cheek. “What is it? Can I help you?”

“Alex Preston?”

The woman nodded.

“Police,” said Annie, flashing her warrant card. “Mind if we come in for a chat, love?”

“Is it about Ian? Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Or Michael?”

“Nothing’s happened to anyone as far as we know.”

“That’s a relief.” The woman took off the chain and opened the door. It led directly into the living room.

Annie realized that she was probably as prejudiced as the next person, except Frank Lane, when it came to life on the East Side Estate—­you got a blinkered view of such things when you were a copper—­so she was surprised to see how clean and tidy the small flat was inside. Alex Preston clearly did the best she could with what little she had. The furniture, if inexpensive, was relatively new, polished and well kept, the walls a tasteful pastel, with small, framed photographic prints strategically placed here and there. The air smelled of pine freshener. The flat-­screen TV didn’t dominate the room, but sat peacefully in its corner, out of the way until it was needed. An electric fire with fake coals stood in the fake fireplace, and framed photographs of a smiling young towheaded boy stood on the mantelpiece. There were also a ­couple of shots of Alex with a young man, whom Annie took to be Mick Lane.

Of course, Annie’s prejudice hadn’t vanished entirely, nor had her suspicious nature. She found herself wondering just how and where Alex Preston and Mick Lane had got the money for all this.

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Alex asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee. Neither of us drinks it.”

“No, thanks,” said Annie. “Maybe a glass of water? Those stairs . . .”

“I’m sorry about the lift. It’s got a mind of its own, hasn’t it? Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We’ve been trying to get the council to fix it for weeks now, but you know what they’re like. Especially when it comes to this estate.”

Annie could guess.

Alex fetched them each a glass of water and sat down in the armchair, leaning forward, clasping her hands in her lap. She was wearing jeans and a T-­shirt, showing to advantage her shapely figure. Fluffy blue slippers with pink pompoms added a homely touch. Her blond hair, which looked natural to Annie’s trained eye, was tied back in a ponytail. Young and fresh-­faced, she wore hardly any makeup and needed none. Her complexion was pale and flawless, she had a slightly upturned nose, a wide mouth and big eyes, a dark, beguiling shade of blue. Young Doug Wilson seemed smitten, at any rate. Annie gestured for him to stop gawping and get out his notebook. He fumbled with his ballpoint pen.

“What is it you want?” Alex asked, sitting forward in her chair, the small frown of concern still wrinkling her smooth forehead. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong? It’s not Ian, is it? Has something happened to Ian?”

“Ian? That’s your son, isn’t it?”

“Yes. He’s eight. He’s supposed to be at school.”

“Then I’m sure that’s where he is. This isn’t about Ian, Ms. Preston.”

Alex Preston seemed to relax again. “Well, that’s good to know,” she said. “And call me Alex, please. Kids. You never stop worrying. The older kids mostly leave him alone, but now and then they tease him a bit. They’re not so bad, really.” Then the frown reappeared. “What is it then? It’s not Ian, and you said nothing’s happened to Michael.”

Michael, Annie noticed. Not Mick, as his father had called him. “Not as far as we know,” she said. “But we would like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

“That’s just it. That’s why I was worried when you knocked at the door. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. I’m starting to get worried.”

“He does live here, though, doesn’t he?”

Alex smiled. It was a radiant smile, Annie thought. “Yes. I know you all probably think I’m a cradle snatcher, got myself a toy boy. Don’t think I haven’t heard it all. But . . . it’s hard to explain . . . we’re . . . well, you know, it’s the real thing.” She blushed a light pink and made a self-­mocking expression. “True love.”

“None of my business,” said Annie.

“I just wanted you to know. That’s all. And he’s really great with Ian. The two of them just get along so well.”

“Where do you think Michael might be?”

“Well, he said he was going to meet someone about a job, and after that he might go and drop in on his dad later. They aren’t on the best of terms, and it worried Michael. He knew he’d upset his father and let him down, especially after his mum left. He acted up, stole a car and all. I’m sure you know all about that, being police. They had a serious falling-­out. They got over it to some extent, but things are still . . . well, difficult. I think it’s partly my fault, you know, being older, having a child. His father doesn’t approve.”