The thought of Atherton rambling across Town Hall Square, let alone the wild moorland paths of the Yorkshire hills brought a faint smile to Thackeray’s normally impassive features.

“Pull the other one,” he said.

“Aye, well, I was young once. So why else have you come?” Atherton asked, steering his guest towards the stairs and the faint clatter of the hospital tea-room above. “I reckon it’s not to buy me a cuppa and a Penguin biscuit.”

“A favour,” Thackeray said quietly.

“Oh aye?” Atherton said non-commitally, though his eyes said “You too?” He stopped short of the top of the stairs and put out a broad arm to bar Thackeray’s way.

“You remember the dodgy doctor at the May Anderson clinic I crossed swords with earlier this year?” Thackeray asked, his voice low.

“No one in the business will forget that bastard in a hurry,” Atherton said. “Bloody General Medical Council hasn’t got round to striking him off yet, you know.”

“I know,” Thackeray said. “But it’s one of his patients I’m interested in. Medical opinion seems to reckon that he couldn’ t possibly have been experimenting with clones, is that right?”

Atherton nodded wary agreement.

“So we’re left with the case of Karen Bailey. She had twins at the clinic and the whole thing left her wondering who the hell the father was - assuming there was one.”

Atherton said nothing but his eyes narrowed and he kept his arm firmly in place, blocking the stairs. Thackeray hesitated.

“Her boyfriend says they never had tests done to establish paternity,” he said at last.

“He must be the only man on earth who doesn’t want to know,” Atherton said.

“It’s hardly credible. And with twins …” He shrugged.

“I don’t believe him,” Thackeray said. “Would she come here for tests?”

“The May Anderson has some arrangement with our labs, I think,” Atherton said. “Unless she had it done privately somewhere else. I suppose you want me to root around in the records for you, do you?”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Aye so you should be,” Atherton said. “Of course, you realise that if all they did was a simple blood test it won’t tell you who the father actually is, if it turns out it can’t be who it ought to be? You’d need DNA samples for that and I doubt they’d go to the expense of getting that done. Chances are they’d not have a sample to match against anyway if the actual father was keeping his head down.”

“Money might be no object, but if the father’s not who it should have been that’s all I need to know,” Thackeray said. His mind clouded for a second and he felt an emptiness in his gut that took his breath away.

“You all right?” Atherton asked.

“I’m fine,” Thackeray said, trying to drive away the image of a baby’s face gazing at him wide-eyed from beneath the surface of his bathwater.

“I’ll not promise,” Atherton said. “But I’ll see what I can do. You look as if you need a holiday, lad.”

“It’s booked,” Thackeray lied.

Chapter Nine

Laura Ackroyd set up her tape-recorder on the polished table which dominated councillor Dave Spencer’s spacious office and smiled sweetly at the councillor himself and his even younger press officer who sat opposite her, as she recalled the first rule of journalism according to Jeremy Paxman which was to ask why these bastards were lying to her. She had no particular reason to distrust Spencer, who had granted her request for an interview about the new development on the Heights readily enough. He had all the attributes she admired in a politician. He was young, and evidently energetic and open-minded, ready to find solutions to problems without relying on dogma to give him the answers. And however much the lack of ideology might upset her grandmother, Laura could see no reason to object to any strategy which brought results for Bradfield’s less prosperous citizens, as Spencer and his colleagues claimed their policies did. And yet as she pulled out her notebook and her list of topics she wanted to discuss with him, she felt uneasy. All the Italian-suited charm, and crop - haired openness across the table did not impress her as much close up as it had at a distance. Might there after all, she thought, be something to hide? But if there were, she was not sure that she was skilful enough to discover what it was.

“So what can we tell you, Laura?” Spencer asked. “Ted Grant says he wants to give this the centre spread so we’ve brought you up some of the outline plans which you can reproduce. They’re on display downstairs, of course, but not many people make the effort to come and look.” He glanced at the young woman at his side. “Jay here is going to do a flyer which will go out to all the residents of the Heights so that they know exactly where we are coming from with this.”

“Fine,” Laura said, switching on the recorder, bristling at his tone.

“Let me talk you through,” Spencer offered kindly. “I don’t suppose you’re used to reading this sort of stuff. These outlines here are where the existing blocks of flats stood. They’ll all come down, of course, when we get the go-ahead, and not before time. They’ll be replaced by low rise housing, here, and here and here.” He ran a finger along the lines which indicated new streets. “And here we have a new primary school to replace the Victorian slum down the hill.”

“The one where the ceilings are always falling down because the roof leaks?”

“St. Michael’s. That’s it. This will be much more convenient for the families, and a good modern building. That’s pure planning gain, of course. And here, a health and community centre, to replace those awful huts, and there an outpost for the further education college to provide courses at that end of the town.”

“And this is all going to be low rent housing, councillor?” Laura asked. “So the tenants of the flats can stay?” The right to buy council properties had proved a dismal failure for tenants in the tower blocks of Wuthering as no financial institution could be persuaded to grant mortgages on the damp and rotting dwellings which had been due for demolition for ten years or more, even if anyone had been prepared to buy them.

“Do call me Dave, by the way,” Spencer came back. “But, no, this is a public-private partnership and in any case the new thinking is that we should mix the types of accommodation so that we don’t recreate these sink estates …”

“And the old people’s bungalows? They’re not in such poor condition.” Laura thought of her grandmother’s fury if her small but comfortable home were to be demolished.

“They come down too. That’s a prime site they’re sitting on, worth a lot of money to the council, and the existing density’s too low for the new developers.”

“So how many of the original tenants will be re-housed on the Heights?” Laura asked.

“Well, that sort of detail will be thrashed out in the consultation. No definite decisions have been taken. And the developers will want a say, of course.”

“Approximately, Dave?” Laura persisted.

“Well, I should think when the plans are finalised somewhere between two-thirds and a half of the tenants will be re-housed elsewhere. It’s inevitable when you take these high rise blocks down that some people will have to move on.”

“That’s an awful lot of people,” Laura said quietly. “Have they any idea they’ll be moved out to make way for more affluent residents?”

“As Councillor Spencer said we’re working on the full consultation procedures as we speak,” Jay said enthusiastically. “We’ll be leafletting up there, having a public meeting, all long before the planning committee commits to definite decisions.”

“This is all the council’s land?” Laura asked.

“Oh, yes,” Spencer said.

“So why isn’t it possible simply to pull down the old blocks and replace them with enough new houses to accommodate the whole of the existing community?”