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age but prematurely greying. Her plump sullen face, lined not unlike a balloon starting to deflate, wobbled as she stalked toward the gate. Leslie moved out of her way, having spotted a wreath leaning against a small thin headstone that did indeed belong to Harmony Duke, 1991-1999. REST NOW BABE, the gilded inscription said. Leslie crossed the chunky turf and had just reached the grave when the woman demanded "What are you after there?"
    Leslie turned, thinking she ought to have acknowledged her with more than a passing smile, and met her pinched gaze. "Mrs. Duke..."
    "Reporter, are you? No more stories. We want leaving alone for a change."
    "I'm not a reporter. I—"
    "You're not another frigging social worker," Mrs. Duke said, suggesting the opposite, and turned her fiercely dry eyes toward the grave as though to reassure herself her daughter hadn't heard her swearing. "If they'd kept their snouts out of our business Harmony might still be alive."
    "I'm sorry," Leslie said before she realised that might sound more like an admission, but Mrs. Duke didn't let it interrupt her. "They made out she was at risk from the bloke I was living with," she said, close enough for Leslie to smell mints on her breath. "He'd gone with a girl he didn't know was under age, and you wouldn't have either if you'd seen her, like it was anyone's business but ours after he'd served his time, so when Harmony went missing they went for him and me as well like I knew he'd done it, and never looked where she was till it was too late."
    "That's..." Rather than complete her thought, Leslie felt safer saying "I'm not a social worker."
    Mrs. Duke's scrutiny felt like a weight on her face. "What's she to you, then?"
    "I own the house where, where she was found, Mrs. Duke. I nearly came to the funeral, but I stayed by the gate, so I felt I had to come now."
    "Why?"
    The question was so hostile Leslie couldn't help being compelled to produce a motive more specific than in fact she was aware of. "I feel—not responsible exactly, but if we hadn't had the house fixed up..."
    "You should."
    Leslie thought it best to turn to the grave. She interleaved her fingers and gazed at the inscription so hard that she heard the words in her head. "I'll leave you alone now," she said once she was certain her voice wouldn't sound as though it were borrowing some of Mrs. Duke's grief.
    As Leslie stepped back from the grave the other woman stepped between her and the path. "Selling the house, are you?"
    "I've given up on that. We've moved back in."
    When Mrs. Duke only stared, Leslie paced around her. She was on the path when she heard Mrs. Duke snarl "Living where he did that..." Leslie glanced back to see her crouched over the grave, a stance that looked both protective and threatening. "Stay away," Mrs. Duke said through her teeth. "You and your brat stay away from her and anything to do with her."

SIX
    The thuds as regular as heartbeats Leslie heard as she stepped into Jericho Close were indeed coming from her house. They were the bass line of one of any number of albums Ian liked just now—she wouldn't have been able to distinguish which. Not much more in the way of music was apparent once she'd let herself in. She shut the front door none too quietly and called "Ian, I'm home."
    He either didn't hear or didn't think an answer was required. At least he'd switched on the oven when he'd come in from school, and the house was greeting her with the spicy aromas of imminent dinner. She sprinted upstairs to shy her bag and her linen jacket onto her mockingly wide bed, then she knocked on his door, knocked harder. "Ian? Ian."
    "What?"
    Since this was as much of an invitation as she was likely to receive, she inched the door open. A roar of guitars and a snarl of harsh torn voices had been awaiting her cue. Ian was sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, his shoed feet on the quilt, schoolbooks strewn around him as he glowered over scribbling in an exercise book.