“No, I’m just here for a chat with Dave Spencer,” Joyce said abruptly. “I can’t get about the way I used to. My hips have given up on me.”

The smart tap of footsteps in the corridor outside heralded the arrival of a much younger man, sharp suited, fresh-faced, and with a haircut so close to the scalp that he could have played football for England. He glanced around the room, ignoring ex-councillor Harvey and waving the two women to a table and chairs in an alcove well away from the door. As they settled themselves down, Spencer, with his file and mobile phone lined up in front of him, glanced at the elaborate looking watch on his wrist.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ackroyd - can I call you Joyce?” he said. “I’ve got an urgent sub-committee in fifteen minutes. Something’s come up. So perhaps if you just tell me what the problem is I can get back to you later?”

“I think it might take a little longer than that to explain exactly what the problems are at the Project,” Joyce said, an obstinate look coming over her face.

“You do know about the Project, Councillor Spencer, don’t you?” Laura asked sharply. “The Gazette did a big feature on it about six months ago.”

Spencer glanced at her sharply.

“You are?”

Laura told him.

“I didn’t make the connection,” he said, looking irritated with himself as if his omniscience had been challenged in some way.

“No reason why you should,” Joyce said. “Laura’s not here as a journalist. She gave me a lift. I’m not as good on my feet as I used to be but there’s nowt wrong with my brain.”

“And now there’s a problem at the Project?” Spencer asked, altogether more placatory now he realised that the Press was in on the meeting, if only unofficially.

Joyce told him exactly how the Project had been vandalised and, in outline, how their precarious financial position meant that unless they could improve their cashflow the whole enterprise might have to close.

“Training is certainly going to be part of the regeneration project that we’re discussing with the government,” Spencer said at last. “It’s a particular interest of some of our business partners, of course. We’ve a massive skills shortage building up in Bradfield. Far too many kids still leaving school too soon. Those who do go to university not coming back again to work. We need to address those problems if we’re to attract modern high-tech industries to the area. What sort of outcomes are you showing up there? Are they getting jobs?”

“Some are,” Joyce said. “Some aren’t. If your business friends don’t like the colour of their skin it’s harder. But you’d be aware of that, of course, on your regeneration committee.”

“Of course,” Spencer said, glancing quickly at Laura and away again.

“And then there’s the problem of drugs,” Joyce said firmly.

“At the Project?” Spencer sounded alarmed.

“Not if we can help it, no,” Joyce snapped. “But on the estate. Too many kids with nothing to do. Too many pushers. Who do you think wrecked the place for us? It wasn’t the ones we were helping, that’s for sure. They’re good as gold when they come to us. It’s the ones who won’t be helped. Another lad dead and the Project wrecked, all in two days. What we need is short-term help to keep going and long-term help to get drugs out of the community before any more youngsters die. Can I come and tell your regeneration committee what needs doing up there, before you make any more plans?”

“I’m sure that would be very helpful, Joyce,” Spencer said. “But I’ll have to put it to them first.”

“Can you raise it at this urgency sub-committee you’re off to now, then?” Joyce asked quickly as the councillor glanced at his watch again. He smiled faintly. Her grandmother still did not miss a trick, Laura thought.

“Not appropriate, I’m afraid, Joyce,” Spencer said. “It’ll have to wait until the next full meeting of the regeneration committee - if they agree. Perhaps in the meantime you can let me have something in writing, including the financial position you find yourselves in now. Our business partners will want to know just what value the project is adding …”

“I’ve got all that here for you,” Joyce said, delving into her bag and bringing out several closely handwritten sheets neatly encased in a plastic document folder. “I didn’t think you’d sign a cheque just on my say-so, lad,” she said. “I may be old but I’m not daft. You’ll find it all here. But I will say one thing. I’ve worked with folk up on the Heights for the last fifty years, on and off, and this is one of the best projects I’ve seen for the last thirty. But it’s no use the Lottery putting in thousands for the capital costs if we can’t insure against theft and vandalism. You can tell your business friends that, especially if some of them are from the banks and insurance companies. They’ll know what I’m talking about. And you’d best make sure that they don’t sell all your new schemes down the river the same way. Regeneration’s all well and good, but when summat goes wrong you’ve got to be able to pick up the pieces.”

She struggled to her feet, ignoring Laura’s arm.

“I’ll be hearing from you shortly, then, shall I, Councillor Spencer?”

Spencer got up and took a step towards the door, clutching Joyce’s folder as if it was giving off a faintly unsavoury smell.

“I’m sure,” he said. “I’m sure.” And he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Joyce looked around the room with some satisfaction. On the far side, Len Harvey peered around his Daily Telegraph with a wicked grin.

“Not lost your tongue then, Joyce?” he said.

“Think they know it all, these sharp young men,” Joyce said.

“Same with us,” Harvey said more soberly. “Trouble is, I think some of them know nowt. Doesn’t matter what party they belong to, they’re all t’same. They’re ambitious, I’ll give you that. Full of big ideas but all mouth and no trousers, I reckon, a lot of them.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Joyce said, following Laura slowly to the door. “If they can’t solve a simple problem like we’ve got just now on the Heights, then I reckon you’re right. Business partners! Since when did business do owt for the poor? Unless there’s a fat rate of interest in it for them.”

DCI Michael Thackeray closed down his computer, stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and sat for a moment in the half-light of the winter evening, with the rain beating against the window as it had done for weeks, reviewing an unsatisfactory afternoon. Superintendent Longley had marched into his office halfway through it as Thackeray expected he would. His face was flushed and his expression as angry as the DCI had ever seen it.

“I’ve just had Mrs. Adams on the phone,” Longley had said, without preamble.

“Sir?” Thackeray said, his face impassive.

“Did you have to search the bloody house?” Longley asked. “I told you to handle this with kid gloves and you choose to use a bloody great sledge-hammer. Did you go down there yourself?”

“Val Ridley was in charge,” Thackeray said. “I told her to handle it sensitively. She’s no fool. She knew the implications.”

“That’s not the impression I got from Mrs. Adams complaining about coppers in hob-nailed boots tramping around her home when the lad’s life is on a knife-edge. And I can’t say I blame her, either.”

“You wanted the drug aspect investigated, sir,” Thackeray had said as mildly as he could manage. “Unless we eliminate the two kids we know took Ecstasy that night we don’t know where to begin looking for the dealer. And unless we’d moved quickly we’d have had the parents doing a search before us and destroying any evidence there might have been. I told Mrs. James we’d need to search. I sent the teams out immediately so she couldn’t warn the Adamses.”

“And did you find any evidence?” Longley had asked, more quietly now, but still flushed.

“A small amount of cannabis in Jeremy Adams’s bedroom.”