‘Would it bother you if Don got to the killer first?’ she said.

Joe didn’t answer straight away. ‘Depends if they get it right,’ he said eventually. ‘The problem is that we’ll never know, because they’ll get rid of the body. All we’ll know is that the gaps between the murders will get longer, and eventually we’ll wind up the investigation, never quite knowing if the right man was caught.’

‘Is that worse than watching him walk out on a technicality, or a bad jury?’ Laura said. ‘Remember, Ian Huntley was only convicted eleven to one. It only takes three loose cannons to throw a trial. Or maybe he’ll get a walkout after twenty years, free to enjoy his final years, ones that Deborah or Jane will never see?’

‘I know how you feel, but if you work in the system, you’ve got to work with the system. It’s not about justice, it never has been. It’s about keeping a lid on everything.’

Laura gave up the argument. She closed her eyes for a moment, the long hours catching up with her, but as soon as she did, she thought she’d seen something. No, not something. Someone.

Her eyes shot open and she looked back along the pavement. She could only see T-shirts and bags, people on phones. Then she saw it again, a shock of grey hair and a slow shuffle, just a glimpse through the crowd.

‘Go back around,’ she said.

‘Go back where?’

‘Round the block. I’ve just seen someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Ida Grix,’ she said.

Joe looked surprised. ‘Why would she be here now, forty miles from home?’

‘Perhaps looking for Shane, because she recognised something in our faces that told her that her doubts were coming true, that Shane hadn’t died in London.’

Joe turned quickly into a side street and doubled back to the main street, crawling along slowly as Laura scanned the crowd again until she saw the same hair.

‘There,’ she pointed. Joe looked.

‘What, going into that shop?’ he said.

‘Yes. Pull over.’

Joe scraped his tyres against the kerb as he brought the car to a halt, and Laura jumped out and trotted down to where she had seen Ida walk into a department store. It was a long way down the street though, and by the time she got down there, Laura couldn’t see her. The shop doors opened automatically and Laura rushed in, looking around quickly, but it seemed like most of the shop was a mass of tight grey curls bobbing between the perfume counters. She remembered that there were too many exits to the shop to be able to know where Ida had gone, if it had been her.

Laura turned away, frustrated and trudged back to Joe’s car. When she got there, Joe had his elbow out of the car window, his eyebrows raised in query.

‘No joy,’ Laura said.

‘How sure were you?’ he said.

‘Sure enough to jog down the street to try and catch up with her.’

‘That’s good enough for me. I’m supposed to be looking after you though, so get in.’

‘So what now?’

‘Same as before,’ Joe said. ‘We go to David Hoyle’s house and speak to Angel.’

As Joe set off again, Laura scanned the street once more, because she knew that if Ida had travelled to Blackley, she was looking for her son. And Laura also knew that they had to find him before Ida did, because the memory of Doctor Barker told her that Ida might not survive the reunion.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Emma’s gate didn’t offer much security, Jack thought. Old wood, painted green, and it wobbled as he pushed at it. The security guards had followed him as soon as he drove onto the estate, and now they were hovering at the end of the street, watching.

The house looked dirty from the outside, with cobwebs around the window frames and the remains of eggs on the ground. He knocked on the door, and after a few seconds, Emma answered.

Now that he could see her in daylight, he saw that life had been rough on her. She was tall, but looked too thin, with prominent veins in her forearms, and her face was just skin tightly wrapped around bones, the paleness of her complexion broken only by the dark circles under her eyes.

‘I’m Jack Garrett,’ he said.

She squinted, the light outside too bright for her. The smell of booze drifted over the threshold. She looked him up and down and then walked back into the house, leaving the door open as an invitation to follow. There was a weave to her walk, and his suspicions were confirmed when he saw an open bottle of cider on the floor by the chair.

Emma caught Jack looking, so she said, ‘It’s just a small drink when it’s a nice day.’

As he checked out the living room, it seemed that there hadn’t been too many nice days for a while. The carpet was threadbare and the house smelled of damp dogs, the floor and chairs thick with dark hairs. As he looked towards the open back door, past the paintwork scuffed by pawmarks, he saw two scruffy brown mongrels lying on the ground in a paved yard that was peppered with dog shit. There was the thump of loud music coming from the house next door.

‘How do you cope with that coming through the walls?’ Jack said, trying to be friendly.

Emma glanced towards her neighbour’s house. ‘You get used to to it,’ she said, and then looked back towards Jack. ‘That’s not why you’re here.’

‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘Tell me what you know.’

She seemed to flush and then shook her head. ‘It’s personal,’ she said. ‘Will it definitely go in the paper?’

‘I’m a reporter. Do you want people to know about it?’

Emma looked at Jack, and then shook her head.

‘Can I call you Emma,’ he said, and when she nodded, he continued, ‘people have been killed, Emma. Don’s daughter has been killed. Mike Corley’s too. If you know something about this, you might save someone else’s life.’

Her hands shook slightly. ‘Poor girls,’ she said.

‘Did you know them?’

Emma looked at him, her eyes ringed red now, a tremble to her chin. ‘It’s beginning to feel like I did.’

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to quote you.’

Emma thought about that for a few seconds. ‘You’ve got nice eyes,’ she said. ‘You can tell what a man is like by his eyes.’ She gestured towards a sofa. ‘Sit down please.’

Jack tried not to look at where he was sitting, knowing that a coat of dog hairs was about to attach itself to his back. ‘So you know Don Roberts, and Mike Corley?’

Emma’s hand went to the glass of cider on the floor. She took a drink, her hand shaking, and as she sat the glass in her lap, a tear ran down her cheek. ‘There is a connection, and I suppose I’m it,’ she said.

‘How do you know them both?’

Emma’s eyelids fluttered with nerves, and then she slumped back in her chair and used a grubby palm to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

‘It was thirty-five years ago,’ she said, and then looked down at herself. ‘Look at me now. A mess, I know that, but it wasn’t always like this. Nineteen seventy-six. I still remember the year.’ She poured some more cider into the glass and took a long drink. ‘Mike Corley and Don Roberts. They used to work in a club in town.’

‘What, together?’

She nodded. ‘Not for long though.’

‘Are you sure about this?’

Emma’s hand started to shake again, and Jack had to lean forward quickly to stop her from dropping the glass.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Tell me about the club.’

Emma looked down when she spoke, her lank hair falling over her face. ‘It was a disco club,’ she said. ‘Manero’s. I used to go there. Don worked the door. Mike was a barman. They were just boys really.’ She shrugged. ‘Disco music. The owner was just trying to cash in, but the club was rubbish. It wasn’t only about having a turntable and speakers, and Manero’s was just another cellar bar with a sound system.’

‘I remember it,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t remember it as Manero’s, but I know that it seemed to change its name every few years. What was it? The New Lounge, and then Mountbattens.’