The shopkeeper seemed relatively unworried, putting it all down to a few “yobs and vandals.” They had never had any trouble like this, never been bothered in any way. It would blow over. But a couple of people had complained because some of the older residents were frightened and the children had started to ask questions.

“You did the right thing. We ent having this. We’ll slap down on it hard, stop them before they’ve got going. Thanks for your help.”

Out in the sunshine, Joe Carmody unwrapped another piece of chewing gum and dropped the paper on to the pavement. Nathan turned on him.

“What’s your problem? You want someone to drop that on your doorstep, do you?”

Carmody rolled his eyes.

“Pick it up and stop messing with me.”

The DC kicked the paper into the gutter and went on kicking until it reached a drain. He pushed it down one of the slats with his toe. Nathan watched him. He was annoyed, but he was also uncertain how to deal with the man. It seemed easiest, at least for the moment, to ignore everything but the job in hand.

“OK, you take those two houses—14 and 16, I’ll take 21 and 23.”

“What for?”

“We’re asking if they’ve had any leaflets, stuff through the letter boxes, and we want to know if they’ve seen anyone, heard anything c the usual.”

“They won’t have if they’ve got any sense.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Right, 14 and 16. Let’s hope they speak English.”

Carmody wandered across the road. Nathan watched him, not wanting to turn his back. Not that the DC wasn’t right. No one would have seen anything and if they had, they wouldn’t say. You couldn’t blame them. They weren’t dealing with a handful of little scrotes from the Dulcie estate bunking off school and looking for trouble. Little scrotes didn’t get leaflets printed.

Carmody moved away from number 14, gesturing across that there had been no reply. He hammered on the next door.

They got nowhere much. One woman produced a leaflet. The old man had reached his house and stood outside as they approached him. He shook his head at the questions.

“Told you,” Carmody said. “What can you do?”

“Keep on asking.”

The synagogue was closed but the caretaker lived in an adjoining house and was at home. He was also voluble. He had taken digital photographs of the graffiti, had collected as many leaflets as he could find, had spent time watching the street, had his own fully formed opinions as to who was responsible.

Neo-Nazis. Thugs from Bevham, a local offshoot of a national organisation, well trained, cunning, good at planning. A worldwide problem, a worldwide hatred of Jews, an internationally organised alliance of anti-Semitic and racist forces.

“Gordon Bennett,” Carmody said as they walked back to the car. “Thought we’d be there till dinner time. Got a bee in his bonnet.”

“Wouldn’t you have?”

“I bet you make them very proud, Sarge.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about half the time. I need a coffee.”

“You toe the line, see? Goody-two-shoes. You’ll go a long way, Nathe, a long, long way. You know which side your bread’s buttered. Me? I come in, do the job, put away some criminals, make a few people sleep easier in their beds at night and bugger the rest. Call me old-fashioned.”

“I ent calling you anything. Get in.”

“Waste of a morning.”

“Not. Plenty to go on.”

“That caretaker was right. All of this—it’s national. Lafferton’s nothing. Dot on the map. They’ll be miles away.” He slid down in the passenger seat again and folded his arms. “Your DCI,” he said.

“Leave him out of it.”

“Why, fancy him, do you?”

Nathan felt his right hand itch. But all he hit with his fist was the steering wheel.

Joe Carmody laughed. “You fall for it,” he said, “every time. Makes it fun.” He reached over and pinched Nathan’s cheek. “Sarge.”

Forty-six

He didn’t think he knew her. She was maybe thirty, maybe less or more, he always found it hard to tell with young women. She had nice hair, straight and brown and clipped back at either side, showing her face off. Nice face. Heart-shaped. Lovely eyes. Dark blue. She smiled. Nice smile. A bit—shy? Nervous? Made him warm to her. She had a big bag over her shoulder. Green. Bright green. Funny that. Handbags used to be brown or black or navy and now they were pink and had jewels on. Or bright green.

All of that in the split second after he opened the door. She wasn’t trying to sell him anything, he could just tell that. She was nicer than that.

“Hello. I’m sorry to trouble you but I’m trying to find Mrs Meelup—Mrs Eileen Meelup. I asked round here and someone said this was the house? If it isn’t I’m really sorry to bother you.”

He smiled. She brought a breath of fresh air with her and, whatever she wanted, he was grateful for that. Fresh air. Ray of sunshine. There hadn’t been much of that lately.

“It’s no bother at all, my dear, this is the right house.”

“Thank goodness for that. I hate it if I’ve barged in on someone and they’re busy and they’d come downstairs and then it isn’t the place after all c” She looked relieved and worried and pleased and nervous all at once. He liked her.

“Don’t you worry. Now, it was the wife you wanted you said? Eileen? I’m Dougie Meelup.”

She put her hand out, trying to stop the big bright green bag from falling off her shoulder and pushing it back and laughing nervously and then her hair came unclipped at one side.

“Here, you’d better step in, sort yourself out by the look of it. Come on, come on in.”

She hesitated. Seemed not to want to intrude. She looked nervous again. A bit worried.

“Come on, lass. Eileen’s in the back.”

“Well, if c thank you, thank you so much. I only want a quick word, but if it isn’t convenient, if she’s busy, I can come back, it really doesn’t matter.”

“She’s just doing something on the computer. Tell you the truth c” he drew her back a bit and lowered his voice, “I’ll be glad of an excuse to get her off it. Visitor and that, she’ll stop. It’s new, you see, and a bit complicated. I dare say you know all about them, the young ones all do, my sons, they do and their boys, only it’s all a bit much for Eileen to take in. She would do it though, said she had to c anyway. You come in the back.”

The computer was on a card table by the window. Keith had got it for her and set it up; the wires trailed a bit, the screen was too big and the whole thing, which was an old model, too cumbersome, but it worked, did the job, as he had said, and Eileen had watched, twitching to start, twitching to use it to find out everything she had to about those children, where, when, what, so she could find the mistake they had made with Weeny.

Two lessons at the library had shown her enough. She had said she wanted to check things about her family. Family trees. “Oh, everybody’s into genealogy now,” the woman had said, “we get dozens in here. Mind you, nothing will take the place of getting out there and looking up public records, church records, all of that. You won’t find everything on the Internet and in my view it won’t be half so exciting. The detective work’s best done on foot, you know.” But she had said it was a start. That was what they’d agreed on. How to make a start. It was easier than she had expected.

She was clicking on the mouse as they walked in.

“Here, there’s a visitor for you, love. Can you drag yourself away from that for a minute? It’s c”

The young woman introduced herself quickly.

“Lucy,” she said. “It’s Lucy Groves.”

“Lucy Groves,” Dougie repeated. He looked foolish. Hadn’t he asked her name at the door? Now he said, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Eileen had found a newspaper report about one of the abducted children and it was in the middle of the screen. She swung round on her chair and then swung back again in confusion, wanting to get rid of it and not knowing how.