Sanderson had driven up to the Heights in response to Lorraine Maddison’s frantic appeal to him to help her find Stevie. He guessed that if anyone knew where the boy was hiding it had to be one or other of his friends in the neighbourhood. But he knew from bitter experience that tackling large groups of youths on an out-of-control estate was a risky enterprise even with a warrant card to back you up. Out of the Force, out on a limb, far from his own turf, it was not a risk he was prepared to take. Only if a single youth passed by would he take a chance and ask a few questions. In the meantime he was content to watch what was going on at Priestley House, just so long as he did not attract any attention.

He did not see the unlit car which passed him until it swooped into the pool of light from the single lamp outside the doors of Priestley. Slightly unnerved, he slid even further down in his seat and watched obliquely out of the side window as the youths outside the flats approached the new arrival with a caution that surprised him. A single figure got out of the parked vehicle and the youths gathered round at what appeared to be a respectful distance, providing a bizarre guard of honour for a tall slim figure who made his way quickly towards the entrance and went inside. After a few cautious glances around the now deserted and rainswept estate, the rest of the group followed him and the doors swung shut behind them.

Sanderson remained where he was for a moment and then started his own engine, letting the car roll quietly down the hill and slowing almost to a stop opposite the doors. With some difficulty, he deciphered the registration number of the dark-coloured BMW which had been left unattended outside the flats and wrote it in ball-point on his hand. Either the owner was very confident that no one would touch his wheels, or did not care whether they did or not — which seemed less likely. Respect, Sanderson muttered to himself as he let in the clutch and moved off down the hill. And there was generally only one way of gaining that on an estate like Wuthering.

He pulled up again outside the old people’s bungalows which gave him an unrestricted view of the parked car and the entrance to Priestley House through his rear view mirror and called Kevin Mower on his mobile.

“I think I’ve got one of the main men up here as we speak,” he said softly. “D’you want to come up and take a look?”

“Give me ten minutes,” Mower said. “Where are you exactly?” Sanderson told him where he had parked, but before he could slide down in his seat again he noticed that the nearest bungalow, the one which he guessed from its boarded up windows belonged to Laura Ackroyd’s grandmother, was showing just the faintest sliver of light beneath its door. Cautiously he slid across to the passenger door and out of the car, ducking low so that he could not be seen from the flats and dodging quickly into the deep shadow at the side of the small house. Further down the row he could hear the sound of television sets turned up high by residents too hard of hearing to be able to pick up any sound other than Coronation Street. Cautiously he worked his way round to the back of Joyce Ackroyd’s house, narrowly missing the dustbin, which was lying on its side, its contents scattered and sodden across the paving. He pushed gently at the kitchen door and to his surprise it swung open at his touch. He hesitated for a moment but the decision whether to step inside or not was taken for him when a hard object was thrust into his back and a hefty shove propelled him over the threshold onto his knees in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Jesus,” Dizzy B gasped, knowing his luck had run out and expecting with heart-stopping certainly that he was about to die. But instead of the shot or crushing blow he anticipated, there came only a whistling expulsion of breath and a surprisingly breathless shrill voice.

“Dizzy B, man. What you doing here? I fuckin’ nearly shot you.”

Dizzy turned slowly towards his attacker and sat back against the cool metal of Joyce’s fridge and expelled a long breath himself. He could feel his heart fluttering like a bird against his ribs as he struggled to control his breathing enough to speak.

“Stevie, man,” he said at last, his voice thick. “What the fuck are you doing with a gun?” The boy was still pointing the weapon in Sanderson’s general direction and Sanderson worried about the steadiness of his trigger finger.

“Put it down, man,” Sanderson said quietly. “I’m not going to hurt you. Your mother’s worried sick about you and asked me to come looking.”

“I’m OK,” Stevie said, letting the weapon fall slowly to his side.

“You don’t look OK,” Dizzy said, getting slowly to his feet so as not to startle the boy. “You’d better give me that or you’ll be in a whole lot of trouble.”

“No way,” Stevie said, holding the gun behind his back. “It’s insurance, isn’t it? I’m looking for the bastard that killed Donna. I reckon it was Ounce. An’if it wasn’t Ounce then he’ll know who did it.”

“Who’s Ounce, for God’s sake?”

“The main man, is Ounce. No one does owt up here without Ounce says so. I saw Ounce t‘night Derek fell, an’all. He were one on‘em on t’roof. He’ll know about Donna, and if I’ve got the gun, he’ll tell me, won’t he?”

“That makes no sense. You’ll be the one who ends up banged up. Or dead.”

“It don’t matter,” the boy said. “I’ve been jabbing needles in misen so long I’ve probably got Aids any road.”

Dizzy opened his mouth to offer comfort but the look in the boy’s eyes was so bleak that he knew he would be wasting his time. He guessed that Stevie knew more about his own condition than he had admitted to his mother. Just as he seemed to know far more about the violence and death which had overwhelmed the estate. He let his breath out in a long sigh.

“Where did you get the gun, Stevie?” he asked.

“They’re not hard to get,” the boy said.

“Tell me about it,” Dizzy said. “But who did you get this one from?”

“No one you know.” Even as Sanderson saw Stevie’s grip tighten again on the weapon which he had been holding loosely at his side, they both heard the sound of a car approaching outside, and then an engine cut out.

“Did you call t‘fuckin’ pigs?” Stevie asked, his voice becoming hysterical as he raised the gun and pointing it directly at Dizzy B again. “You’re a shite, Dizzy, man.” But as Dizzy tried to speak, his mouth as dry as ashes, Stevie turned and dodged out of the back door into the darkness of the night.

“Damnation,” Dizzy muttered to himself knowing that he had no chance of catching the boy across the back gardens and alleyways of his home territory. Wearily he turned towards the front door where someone was tapping urgently on the single pane of unbroken glass.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanderson said. He peered out into the darkness. “Kevin, is that you?”

He opened the door to let a soaking wet Mower into the bungalow and made them both instant black coffee in what was left of Joyce’s kitchen with hands which were still shaking slightly.

“Jesus wept,” Mower said when Sanderson had filled him in on Stevie Maddison’s near murderous arrival and equally precipitate departure. “We can’t mess about with this one, mate. We need the cavalry if the kid’s running around with a loaded weapon. I need to get my guv’nor out of bed at the very least. We can’t handle this on our own.”

“I don’t think he’ll use the gun,” Sanderson said. “I don’t even know if it was loaded. He’s looking for someone called Ounce. That mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” Mower said. “We need backup.”

Sanderson groaned.

“I thought you didn’t care about the job any more,” he said. “You know what those trigger happy bastards from firearms are like. It’s the kid who’ll end up blown away.”

“And it’s me who’ll end up out of a job if I cover for him,” Mower said. “We can’t take the risk, Dizzy. You know that, for God’s sake.”