Everyone else fell silent, and Jack felt the mood turn more hostile.

‘Because I’m writing all about you,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you want a starring role? Be more famous than the other gangs, if that is what you are.’

‘People know who we are.’

‘So what about that house? Won’t they pay their dues?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Come on, you don’t seem like the stupid type. You all work for Don Roberts, I guessed that much, earning cigarette money by making people sign up for his security firm.’

The tyre jabbed against Jack’s legs.

‘You need to be more careful what you say.’

They were interrupted by a beam of light, and as he looked, Jack saw that it was the security van with the two security guards he had seen earlier. It came to a stop by the pavement, and the leader rolled towards it on his bike. He leaned in and exchanged whispers with the passenger, and then he looked back and gave Jack a slow salute.

‘See you around,’ he said, and started to ride off down the road, the other youths following.

Jack let out a long breath and then went over to the van.

‘You boys work long hours,’ Jack said. ‘I hope he pays well.’

The small one scowled. ‘It would be a shame to see your car get damaged.’

‘Round here, with you boys on duty?’ Jack said, and then shook his head. ‘You keep the estate crime-free, don’t you? For a fee.’

‘Those who pay get the protection,’ he said.

Jack nodded towards his car. ‘Is this going to cost me?’

The security man shook his head, and Jack caught the gleam of his teeth. ‘Call it a trial period.’

‘How long will it last?’

He smiled at Jack, but there wasn’t too much humour in it. ‘Your car will be fine,’ he said, and Jack guessed the hidden meaning, that there wouldn’t be any problems as long as he didn’t write about the security situation.

‘Thanks for that,’ Jack said. ‘Back to work though,’ and he stepped away from the van.

He expected them to follow as he approached the house that had been the target of the youths, but instead the van set off, the path bathed in darkness once more as the headlights went around the corner.

He went slowly along the path, knowing that there was debris. His feet caught the shards of a broken plant pot, and he felt the soil and flowers underfoot. There was the tinkle of broken glass as he reached the door. He rapped hard on the wood.

There was no reply at first, but he could see the soft glow of a bulb inside the house, and so he knocked again. He was about to walk away when he heard coughing from the other side of the door. When it swung open, he saw a tall woman, messy straw-coloured hair that was streaked with grey, her face in shadow from the hall light behind her head.

She didn’t say anything. She swayed slightly, and Jack caught the smell of drink.

‘I’m a reporter,’ he said. ‘I just want to ask you about the damage that’s been caused to your house.’

She put her hand against the door frame to steady herself. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ she said, and the words came out with a deep slur.

‘What, you want them to get away with it?’ Jack said. ‘Why don’t you call the police?’

The woman shook her head. ‘There’s no point,’ she said and went to close the door.

Jack put his hand out to stop it. ‘I’m a journalist. I’m doing a piece on the estate. It might stop if you go public.’ He pulled out a business card from his pocket. ‘Call me if you want to talk about the estate,’ he said.

She took it from him and stared at it for a few seconds, before she slammed the door shut, leaving Jack in complete darkness.

He turned away, thinking that he finally had the makings of an article.

David Hoyle’s home was ahead of him, on the other side of the field. He tried to focus. Stick to the plan. No more diversions.

It was one house converted from a small row of almshouses, so it was like a long bungalow with lots of windows. He had watched Hoyle go out before, and so there would be only one person in the house: Angel, his girlfriend. He smiled. He’d done his research.

He stepped out of his van and took a deep breath, felt it force out the noises, so that he could hear just the rush of his blood, everything else on hold, waiting for the aftermath. There was a path along the field that hugged a high hedge and ended next to Hoyle’s home. An escape route.

He walked nonchalantly and pulled on his gloves, tight latex so that he could still feel through them. He tried to look natural, aware that if someone looked out from the houses opposite he would appear suspicious to them. His mouth was dry though, and he was aroused, beads of sweat on his lips. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to leave a trace of DNA.

The path took him onto the street and so he made straight for a gate that led to the back garden. He reached for the latch, careful to make sure it didn’t creak.

As the gate swung open, the street light outside caught the bright colours of garden blooms. He closed the gate slowly and began to move along the stone wall, the edges sharp, making soft swishes against his clothes. He didn’t want to trip a security light, but when he got a full view of the garden, he saw that there was a light shining over the lawn at the back of the house. He sidled to the corner and slowly peered round, letting the room come into view. It was the dining room, a long table stretching towards the back doors, with a kitchen to one side, filled with brushed aluminium and utensils hanging from racks. There was no one there, and as he moved closer, he realised that he could see right through into the living room.

He kneeled down to the flowerbed and scooped up some handfuls of dirt, jamming it into his pocket. His hand pressed on the door handle at the back. It was unlocked. She must be in. He felt his excitement grow, and so he tried to stop his heavy breaths, coming faster now, his tongue flicking onto his lip. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He didn’t expect any witnesses.

The door creaked on its hinges and he paused, waited for the rumble of feet or for someone to call out, but there was nothing.

Why had she left the door unlocked? She had made a choice to put herself at risk.

As he slipped inside, he noticed that it was warm in the house, the air filled with the cloying smell of plug-in air fresheners and the remnants of a microwave meal. He smiled. Dining for one. He thought back to the house layout. Three almshouses knocked through into one. There was a dining room at the end of the house, next to the kitchen. The living room was in the middle, occupying the space of what would have been the next almshouse, and the bedrooms were further along.

He moved slowly through the dining room and headed for the living room. He listened out for the sound of the television, his breathing as quiet as he could make it. He could hear chatter further into the house, just small mumbles of conversation. He stopped. Did she have a friend over? Two people would be hard to take on. He stopped to listen out more, but then he realised that he could only hear one voice. She must be on the telephone.

The living room was empty, the television just a black screen.

He moved towards the archway that led into a corridor separating the three bedrooms. The silence in his head was too quiet, the voices stopped, waiting for him to act, the ecstasy of the release.

The sound of her voice got louder. If she was on the phone it would have to be quick, silently grabbing her before she could say anything, although he grinned when he thought of what the person on the other end might hear. Her cries, muffled, maybe a struggle.

The first bedroom door was ajar, and so he pressed his ear against it. The room seemed silent. He gave the door a gentle push. No one was in there, just paintings scattered around the room.