“I’ll tell him,” Laura had said, her temper on a very short fuse. “So stick to the main issue, Michael. What’s being done about the heroin crisis on the Heights? Why do people think a murder’s being covered up? Why does everyone up there - including Joyce, incidentally - think no one gives a damn about their kids? Is everyone just waiting for the flats to be pulled down and hoping that the problem will disappear with them? It’s not very likely, is it? It’ll just move somewhere else.”

“Laura, Laura, you’re jumping to conclusions again. I never said nothing was being done. But I can’t tell you about everything we’re doing, you know that. It’s not all my responsibility. As far as I’m concerned I’m still trying to discover who got the Adams boy so far out of his head on Ecstasy that he walked in front of a taxi.”

“Is he still unconscious?” Laura asked.

“As far as I know, yes. But slightly improved, apparently.”

“But if this other boy, Derek Whitby, was pushed off the roof that would be murder and surely that would be your responsibility, even if the drug squad is up on the Heights,” she had persisted.

“I never said anything about the drug squad,” Thackeray came back irritably. “And I’ve absolutely no evidence that the Whitby boy was murdered. Bring me the witnesses, and then we can talk about it. In the meantime, please don’t take risks up there. You’re right on one count at least - the place is run by the dealers and some of them are very unpleasant indeed. They’d think nothing of throwing a reporter off a roof if she got in their way.”

“I can look after myself,” Laura had said, with more confidence than she really felt. “And I think I can get you the witnesses.”

Thackeray groaned.

“You are the most pig-headed person I have ever met,” he said.

“And you love me for it,” Laura had come back quickly, reaching a tentative hand for his. But he had pulled away.

“Just now I’d like to go to sleep,” he said. “You’re not the only one who’s had a bad day.” And with that she had to be content. In the cold light of morning, finding herself alone in the bed, Laura had quickly realised that she had not forgiven him for his lack of understanding and she guessed - as he had not roused her with his usual kiss - that he felt much the same.

“Damn and blast,” she muttered into the pillows, before burying her head under the bedclothes and remaining there without moving until she heard the front door close behind him. “Oh, Michael,” she said to herself as she shrugged herself into her bathrobe and wandered into the kitchen for orange juice. “Are we ever going to make this work?”

Thackeray carried his ill-humour to the office with him. His track record with women, he thought as he drove into town, didn’t bear thinking about. His marriage to the sweetheart he had met at sixteen had collapsed early into acrimony on Aileen’s part and heavy drinking on his. By the time their son Ian had been born it had been too late to rescue much from the wreckage and he had been too drunk most of the time to notice that his wife was sliding into the suicidal depression which soon claimed her sanity and the life of their baby. Since then he had drifted from one brief unsatisfactory relationship to another until he met Laura Ackroyd and rediscovered the sort of intense happiness which he thought had slipped beyond his grasp for good. And now he found himself wondering how long it could last - and how long he could last if she left him. He knew she was frustrated by her job, by Bradfield and increasingly, he felt, by his own limitations. They paddled endlessly around the jagged reefs of his fears: of commitment, of permanence, of having another child. He adored her for her resilience, her determination and her humour, but these were the very things he was afraid he was wearing down. She deserved more, and he was very afraid that he would never be able to give it to her.

He parked his car in his space at the central police station and made his way gloomily to his office where he flicked idly through overnight reports. The name Adams caught his eye and he saw that Jeremy, who had been in the Infirmary for almost a week now, had regained consciousness. Squaring his shoulders to face the day’s work, he picked up the phone and asked DC Val Ridley to come in to see him.

“Can we interview the Adams boy today?” he asked when she had presented herself, all brisk efficiency in a dark suit and a powder blue shirt which matched her wary eyes.

“Possibly,” she said. “But doting dad says he wants his solicitor to be there.”

“Taking no chances then?”

“He wouldn’t would he, boss?”

“Let me know when you get a slot to see him,” Thackeray said. “I might come with you. If they feel the need to put up their big guns perhaps we should do the same.”

Val Ridley smiled faintly as if she approved of that but she did not comment.

“Did you hear about the trouble at the Carib Club last night?” she asked.

And when Thackeray shook his head, she expanded.

“Running battles between the black kids coming out and some Asian youths who were evidently waiting for them outside.”

“Serious, was it?”

“Serious enough. Half a dozen charges of affray, a couple of ABH, three in hospital with minor stab wounds. And a whole chorus of the great and the good on the local radio this morning calling for the place to be shut down. Including the local mosque, of course.” Laura usually listened to the local radio news as they snatched breakfast together, he thought, but this morning he had made sure he was not there when she woke.

“You’re not suggesting it was a put-up job, are you?” Thackeray asked with half a smile. “I mean, if you want to get a place a reputation for rowdiness there’s no easier way than providing a bit, is there? What was your impression when you interviewed the owners?”

“It didn’t seem to be any worse than half a dozen other clubs on the patch,” Val said.

“And young Sharif? Would he agree with that assessment?”

“Omar’s a bit uptight about these things,” Val said carefully. “The Carib’s very close to Aysgarth Lane. There’s been a long history of trouble between the black and Asian youngsters there. Omar’s not just aware of that, I guess he was probably part of it when he was at school. The older generation seemed to be doing their best to damp it down but I’m not so sure now.”

“I heard Omar didn’t endear himself to the DJ when you arrested him yesterday,” Thackeray said, to Val Ridley’s evident surprise. “Over the top, was he?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” she said, not daring to ask how he had come by his information. “Not much love lost, but nothing you’d need the race relations thought-police for.”

“The last thing I want with this Carib row going on are allegations that the police are taking sides, or being racist in any way,” Thackeray said. “Keep an eye on Sharif, will you? And on anyone else who might raise the tension - by accident or design.”

“Sir,” Val Ridley said, her face expressionless, and Thackeray knew that she did not like the order, although whether that was because she thought he was over-reacting or because she did not want to mother a younger colleague, he could not tell. She probably suspected that he would not have asked any of her male colleagues to do the same, and she was probably right, he thought wryly.

Ridley hesitated by the door.

“Have you heard anything from Kevin?” she asked at last. “When he’s coming back.”

“He’s got another couple of weeks before he needs to make a decision,” Thackeray said. Another boss might have teased her about her interest but that was not the way he worked. “Last I heard he was doing fine.”

“He’s a good copper,” Val said defensively.

“I know that, Val,” Thackeray said. “Don’t worry. I’m not looking for an excuse to get rid of him.”