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last tenant before the property was sold. He’d been there for a number of years. I remember he wasn’t best pleased to be leaving, but the owner was looking to make a few quid before the market tumbled again.’
    â€˜Do you have a forwarding address?’
    â€˜Mr Owers is still one of ours. Unfortunately.’ The woman grimaced, and then realising Savage didn’t get her joke she added: ‘He rents a property over in Stonehouse, on Durnford Street. One twenty-one B.’
    The woman scribbled on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Savage. Savage passed the slip across to Calter, who took out her phone and left the room.
    â€˜Is there a problem?’ The same words, but this time a quiver in amongst the gruffness. ‘Only maybe I should inform my boss. If you could just tell me what this is all about?’
    â€˜Your tenant did some building work at the property in Lester Close. In the garden.’
    â€˜Did he? They’re not supposed to you know, not without permission. Anything like that has to be authorised, otherwise we can get into all sorts of legal difficulties. The tenant can create a right mess and eventually their DIY efforts come back to haunt us. Is that what has happened?’
    â€˜Haunt you?’ Savage said. ‘Yes, you could say so.’
    â€˜Well, are you going to tell me the details?’
    â€˜No. Do you have a spare key for the Durnford Street property by any chance?’
    â€˜Would it help? You know, keep things quiet?’
    â€˜It might,’ Savage said, knowing nothing would keep what she had seen at Lester Close quiet.
    The woman reached across to a cupboard, and opened the door to reveal a pegboard with dozens of keys hanging on numbered hooks. She thought for a moment and then grabbed a set and handed them over, her eyes still asking for more.
    â€˜Watch the news tonight.’ Savage turned and opened the door to leave. ‘
Spotlight
if you’re lucky.
News at Ten
if not. Thanks for your help.’
    Downstairs Calter stood talking into her phone, nodding every so often as she paced back and forth in front of the bookies. She ended the call and then told Savage what she knew.
    â€˜Franklin Owers has got previous, ma’am. He did seven years for sexual activity with a child. A six-year-old. Spent time up at Full Sutton. You know, where they keep the real nutters. It was a while ago though, he was out a few years back. On the sex offenders’ register for life, of course. Apparently his MAPPA status was downgraded to level one several years ago.’
    Savage nodded. MAPPA stood for Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements. Any sex offender had a long list of people involved in their life on the outside, with everyone from probation officers and social workers to housing and health professionals having a say in managing the offender’s activities. The idea was to share resources and information across agencies. Savage suspected a by-product was the ease with which the buck could be passed along the line.
    â€˜We’d better get over to his place now,’ Savage said, glancing up at the window of Dream Lets. The agent stood gazing down at them, a sliver of black pressed against one ear and an unlit cigarette in her other hand. ‘Before anyone else gets wind of the story.’

Chapter Four
    Mount Edgcumbe, Plymouth. Monday 14th January. 12.21 p.m.
    Later, Riley and Kemp went into the Edgcumbe Arms and ordered lunch, Kemp going for a beef stew, Riley choosing the Thai sweet chilli chicken. Two beers as well, Kemp laughing at Riley’s lager top as he supped his bitter.
    â€˜How did you come to be down here then?’ Kemp said, polishing off the mushroom sauce with the last of his new potatoes. ‘I mean …’
    â€˜You mean because I’m black?’
    â€˜Well, not exactly wall-to-wall diversity in this part of the world, is it? And your accent, posh, educated, but London in there