“What time Wednesday?” Harman asked sulkily. “I were at work most o’t day, till six any road.”

“And where’s that?”

“Dale’s Engineering up Manchester Road. I work in t’finishing shop.”

“But not today?” Sharif asked. “Or was that your dinner-hour when you came into the bar?”

“That’s right,” Harman said. “I saw the Gazette earlier and bloody well needed a stiff drink.”

“And later on Wednesday. What did you do after work?”

“Went home, had my tea, watched a bit of telly and went to bed,” Harman said flatly. “If you think I killed Stanley you must be barmy. I were actually fond of the old bugger, though I sometimes wondered why.”

Thackeray got home late and tired. They had let Harman go, as they had to, having no evidence at all to link him to Wilson on the day he died. He had been about to call it a day when the uniformed duty inspector had called him downstairs where he found Kevin Mower, Kiley and Sharon Hatherley and a social worker crowded into an interview room waiting for him.

“We couldn’t find their parents,” Mower said. “But I think they’ve got something to tell you which might be useful to your murder investigation.”

Thackeray had listened in astonishment as the girls repeated what they had already told Mower.

“How often did you see this man on the Heights,” he asked when they had finished. “Every day? Once a week? Can you remember?”

“Not every day,” Sharon said. “Once or twice a week maybe. He were usually talkin’ to t’older lads. He took no notice of girls, did ’e?” Kiley nodded solemnly but suddenly the huge blue eyes which had been gazing guilelessly at the assembled adults lit up as a new thought struck her.

“He were always there Tuesday,” Kiley said.

“How do you know that?” Thackeray asked, surprised.

“Because it’s PE after us dinner on Tuesdays and when we go to t‘chippie we have to hurry back. The day Emma got sick it should have been PE and I missed it ’cause Sharon an’ me waited for her mam to come down from t’Project, didn’t we? And I like PE.”

“And once he gave us a lift back to school in his car, and that were a Tuesday an’all because Kiley were going on about getting changed for PE,” Sharon said.

“You took a lift with this man?” Thackeray had said, glancing at Mower in scarcely veiled horror.

“You must never -” the social worker had begun, until Thackeray stopped her with a wave of his hand. He did not want the children distracted.

“Tell me about his car,” he said. “Was it a big one?”

“It were red, not very big.”

“Anything else you can remember about it?” The two girls shook blonde heads in unison: as far as they were concerned, a car was just a car and the main memory of that Tuesday was of sailing down the hill back to the primary school while most of their contemporaries trudged through the rain on foot.

“So when this man gave you and Emma a drink you already knew him? He wasn’t really a stranger?” Thackeray pressed the younger girl. Kiley nodded, frightened now.

“Did you tell Emma’s mum who it was?”

Mower shook his head angrily at that.

“I went round there to ask,” he said. “Their mother wouldn’t let me talk to Kiley.”

“My dad said to keep out of it,” Sharon said on her younger sister’s behalf. “Said if Emma wanted to get pissed it were nowt to do wi’us.”

“Your parents and Mrs Maitland didn’t get on?” Thackeray asked.

“My mam said Donna were a stuck up cow,” Sharon said. “I’m sorry for Emma now, mind,” she added quickly. “Now her mam’s dead.”

Thackeray had led Mower up to his office after the social worker had taken the two girls home to wait for their parents.

“Love thy neighbour?” Mower said angrily, flinging himself into a chair.

“Come on, Kevin, you know what it’s like up there,” Thackeray had said. He looked at the sergeant critically, taking in the still unshaven beard and dark circles under the eyes. If Mower was on the way back to normality he was disguising it well, he thought.

“If there are links between Wilson and what been going on up on the Heights you may get what you want after all,” Thackeray said.

“Was he propositioning these lads he was talking to, or was he delivering something for someone?” Mower asked.

“Something else to talk to the drug squad about,” Thackeray had said. “It’s quite possible they know the answer.” He looked at Mower again thoughtfully.

“Do you still think Donna Maitland’s suicide was a fake?” he asked.

“Amos Atherton said …”

“You’re pushing your luck, Kevin,” Thackeray had interrupted angrily. “Amos shouldn’t be saying anything to you.”

“One of the slashes on her wrists was very deep,” Mower said, his face closed and remote. “Too deep, maybe, more like a knife than a razor blade. There was no knife in that bathroom when I got there. He’s waiting for the results on the toxicology tests.”

“I’ll have a close look at the PM report,” Thackeray had conceded. “And I’ll have to talk seriously to Ray Walter now. We can’t make any major moves up there without them on board.”

“If you ask me they’ve not got a clue what’s going on,” Mower said. “And if Donna did kill herself, it’s bloody well down to them anyway. They were out of order raiding the Project like that.”

When Thackeray had finally got home he found Laura and her grandmother eating risotto at the table in the window which overlooked the long luxuriant garden which as much as anything had persuaded Laura to buy the flat. But tonight the curtains were drawn tight against the gusting rain outside, and the softly lit room seemed like an oasis of warmth in a cruel world.

Thackeray kissed Laura on the cheek and put a hand lightly on Joyce’s shoulder. She had barely touched her food, he noticed.

“I heard you’d been vandalised,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask Jack Longley to kick uniform into putting some extra effort into finding the little toe-rags.”

“I don’t want any special treatment,” Joyce said tetchily. “I’m not the only one being bullied up there, you know.”

“She needs to stay here for a bit,” Laura said, looking up at Thackeray doubtfully.

“Of course she does,” Thackeray said quickly.

“Not long, I don’t,” Joyce said. “I’ll not be in your way long. I’m not giving the developers the satisfaction of finding my place empty. Or the vandals for that matter. I’m going home as soon as the repairs are done.”

Laura raised her eyes skyward for a second and Thackeray allowed himself a faint smile.

“I see the famous Ackroyd bloody-mindedness hasn’t been dented too badly,” he said.

“Anyway, you must know I’m a major drug suspect these days,” Joyce said with satisfaction. “I’m sure it’s not good for your reputation to be living with the likes of me for long, Michael.”

“If I told you I thought the drug squad was misguided, Joyce, I don’t suppose you’d believe me, would you?” Thackeray said carefully.

“Aye, well, they turned out to be a sight too misguided for poor Donna,” Joyce snapped back, for once letting her bitterness show.

“The whole situation on the Heights is turning into a bloody tragedy,” Laura said suddenly, glaring at Thackeray. “It’s time the left hand told the right hand what it’s doing. The bad guys seem to be running rings round you all.”

“Which is why I’d like you both to keep away from the place,” Thackeray said.

“We all have our jobs to do,” Joyce said sharply. “And now I’ll get to bed, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day.”

When she had closed the door of the spare bedroom firmly behind her, Laura glanced at Thackeray, who had slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. She slipped onto the chair arm beside him and put an arm round him.

“This is getting to you,” she said. “What is it? Have you been talking to Kevin Mower? Do you really think Donna was murdered?”

Thackeray shrugged wearily.