The Winfields had been Eastman’s idea. ‘I’ll get Strickland to take the kiddy round,’ he said. ‘You’re in no shape to do anything. Get yourself home to Alma. Do you have keys? To her flat?’

The next day Eastman invited Len for a game of golf. ‘You’re not a bad man, Len,’ he said, practising his swing. ‘A bad thing happened to you, that doesn’t mean that your life should be destroyed, not on account of one dead whore. And that kiddy of yours has gone to a wonderful home, think of everything she’ll have.’ Len still didn’t mention the boy.

He expected Carol to be found. That’s what happened, people died, other people found them. Then time went on and nothing happened. It began to seem unreal, it began to seem as if it had never happened at all. He’d had a cousin, Janet, still had her but nobody in the family talked about her much any more. Aged fourteen she gave birth in her bedroom at home. Nobody even knew she was pregnant, everybody just thought she was getting a bit fat. When her mother asked her why she hadn’t said anything, Janet said she’d hoped that if she ignored it, it would all just go away. That was how Len felt. He never thought about whether the boy was alive or dead, never really thought about the boy at all.

‘What are you brooding on?’ Alma asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, gave her some flim-flam about stress at work.

When they got the call it was a shock, like a body blow, like some bugger running into him on the rugby field. ‘Woman’s body discovered in the Lovell Park flats, uniforms in attendance.’ Still no one mentioned the boy. Len wondered if he really had disappeared. Melted into thin air.

‘Jesus,’ Strickland said. ‘This is going to be difficult. Her body’s been there for weeks.’

Eastman caught them before they got in the car. ‘Now then, steady, lads, steady,’ he said. ‘Keep your heads.’

Len finally mentioned the boy.

‘You daft bastard,’ Eastman said. ‘You should have said something, I could have helped you clear up the mess a lot sooner.’

It never struck him that the boy might still be alive. He’d expected they would have two bodies on their hands. Couldn’t believe it when he saw the boy in that WPC’s arms.

The boy was a witness, of course. Eastman ‘had a word’ with the social worker. Neither Len nor Ray knew what he said. Threatened her with losing her own kiddy probably. He was a good man to have on your side but a very bad one to have against you. Ray followed up for him, caught her coming from the hospital and took her for a drink in the Cemetery Tavern. ‘She’s sound,’ he reported back to Len. ‘She’s terrified. Eastman said the Drug Squad would “find” hard drugs in her place.’

Eastman got a gagging order ‘to protect the boy’, his name was changed and he was put into a Catholic orphanage. Len never heard anything more about him. The Winfields got new papers for Nicola, that bad bastard Harry Reynolds organized it, and then they buggered off to New Zealand. New Zealand might as well have been Jupiter or Mars as far as Len was concerned. It had all been a nightmare, he told himself, a terrible nightmare. A hole that opened up in front of his feet and then closed over again.

Eastman phoned him, gave him his instructions. Pick up the girl from the Lovell Park flats, lock up behind you. Eastman gave him a set of keys. ‘Forget about what you see inside.’ He told Ray to take the girl to the Winfields. ‘We’re doing the right thing here, Ray,’ Eastman said. ‘It might not be the letter of the law, but it’s a moral imperative. Giving the kiddy a good home instead of her ending up who knows where. I phoned Ian Winfield, he knows what to expect but he’ll pretend to be surprised. For the wife’s sake, you know, she can get a bit overwrought.’

When they arrived at the Lovell Park flats three weeks later, Ray said to Len, ‘I can’t go in there again, Len. I can’t face what we’re going to find in there.’ They had argued before they had gone up in the lift. ‘Band of brothers,’ Len said, thumping him on the shoulder, more aggression than affection. ‘All for one, one for all.’ Eastman’s motto.

Len had known. He had known about that kiddy in the flat and left him there.

‘I thought he’d be found,’ Len said. ‘And then, I don’t know, it just became unreal.’ Attempted murder as far as Ray was concerned. He threw up his breakfast when he saw the state of the kid. If he had known he would never in a million years have left that kiddy behind in that place.

Ray had paid a visit to Carol Braithwaite at New Year. He’d been drunk, missing sex with Anthea, unwilling to go back to Margaret, sober and schoolmarmish in her cotton nightdresses. So he had gone to see Lomax’s whore. Never done that before, never been with a prostitute. ‘An uncomplicated fuck,’ he imagined Len saying.

Carol Braithwaite opened the door to him and said flatly, ‘I’m not doing business tonight, go and look somewhere else.’ She looked tired, old before her time. She was holding a little girl in her arms. It seemed wrong that women like her got to be mothers just by opening their legs to any man and his own wife couldn’t get a baby to save her life. He didn’t know at the time that the kiddy was Len’s. No sign of the boy.

‘Fuck off, why don’t you?’ Carol said.

He’d sent Barry Crawford home by then, of course. No hope of getting a taxi in the early hours of 1975. He’d walked all the way home, tail between his legs, and slipped into bed next to Margaret. Told her he loved her.

The worst thing wasn’t what happened to the boy, nor was it the fact that Len murdered Carol Braithwaite or that Eastman helped cover it up. The worst thing was that when Ray whisked the little girl away – stole her, really – and he was sitting in the back of Crawford’s Cortina he realized they were driving past his own house. There was a light on downstairs, Margaret waiting up for him probably, sitting there knitting, listening to the radio. She preferred the radio to the TV. He could have pulled into his own driveway, rung his own doorbell and given the best gift possible to his own wife. But he hadn’t done that, he’d given that little girl to Kitty Winfield instead. And the boy. He could have saved that little boy, brought him up as his own. Two chances, both lost.

Barry thought he would puke when he went into that flat. He hadn’t thought of anyone actually being dead in there, he just thought Strickland had taken the kid. But when he saw the little boy, he realized that he had been left behind that night. Imagined what his own mother would have to say about that. She loved kiddies, couldn’t wait for Barry to get wed and become a father. Eastman had called him. Told him to help clean up the mess. Didn’t say who had made the mess but it was pretty obvious to Barry that it was Ray Strickland.

She was sleeping peacefully. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. She was never going to wake up, never going to be Amy again. She would have hated to be here like this, would have begged Barry to put an end to it. The last thing you would ever wish for your child turned out to be the one thing you had to do. He took the pillow from beneath her head and held it over her face. ‘I love you, pet,’ Barry said. He tried to think of something else to say, something bigger and more important but there wasn’t anything, he’d said the only thing that mattered. He thought that she might struggle but she didn’t. The only difference when he took the pillow away was that her chest no longer rose and fell.

He felt empty of everything now. It was a good feeling. He checked his watch. Twelve o’clock. Ivan was getting out of Armley Jail at one. He’d better get a move on. Barry felt the heft of the gun in his pocket. He liked the feel of it, it put him in control. A Baikal. Gangland gun of choice. Modified in Lithuania, here you pay twenty times what you would for them there, apparently. He’d never actually seen one before. This one was courtesy of Harry Reynolds. All these old blokes who wouldn’t give up their thrones. Strickland, Lomax, Harry Reynolds.