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Along with its twin, it had been rushed up in the first Wilson era, that flush period when ‘progress’ and ‘the white heat of technology’ were the buzzwords. Architecturally, the best that could be said about the buildings was that they hadn’t fallen down yet. Socially, many people wished they had. Luckily, there were only two tower blocks, and they were only ten storeys high. As beautiful a market town as it was, and as attractive to tourists, Eastvale was slightly outside the borders of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, so not subject to its stringent building rules, or there wouldn’t have been any East Side Estate at all, let alone tower blocks. Mustn’t trouble the tourists with eyesores like that.
    ‘Shall I put the Krook lock on?’ Wilson asked.
    ‘Nah,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t bother. What’s the point? It’s not likely to stop anyone around here if they want to drive off with a police car. Bolt cutters come with the territory.’
    ‘Watch it, guv,’ said Wilson. ‘I grew up on an estate like this. You’re maligning my social background. You can get done for that. It’s not politically correct.’
    ‘Sorry. Is that right? I thought you grew up in the country. You seem to know plenty about mole-catchers and so on.’
    ‘Just familiarising myself with the territory. I like to take an interest in many things.’
    ‘You really grew up on an estate like this?’
    ‘Worse.’ Wilson adjusted his glasses. ‘In Sheffield. It’s not something I’d lie about, or brag about, either. Actually, it wasn’t as bad as people think. We were lucky. We had decent neighbours. Give you the shirt off their back, they would. Or off someone’s back, at any rate.’
    Annie laughed. ‘Come on.’
    They walked towards the lift and Wilson pressed the button.
    ‘You know, if this were on telly,’ Annie said, ‘the lift would be out of order, and we’d have to walk up eight flights of stairs through a gauntlet of drugged-up hoodies flashing knives.’
    ‘Or if it worked,’ said Wilson, ‘it’d be covered in graffiti and stink of piss.’
    The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open. The inside was covered in graffiti and stank of piss. They got in anyway. Annie held her nose and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The doors closed, but nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing. After a moment’s panic – Annie had always been claustrophobic in lifts – the ‘doors open’ button worked and they got out and walked. On the fifth-floor stairwell, they had to push their way through a gang of hoodies. Someone made a remark about Harry Potter after they had passed, and they all laughed. Wilson turned beet red and reached up to take off his glasses. Annie grabbed his elbow to stop him going back and thumping the one who had spoken. ‘Not worth it, Dougal. Not worth it. Easy does it. It’s probably just the glasses, you know.’
    ‘Yes, guv,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Think I’ll make an appointment with the optometrist tomorrow and get fitted with some contact lenses.’
    ‘That should help,’ Annie said. ‘And maybe if you could do something with your hair, and lose the wand . . .’
    Wilson turned and started to glare at her, then his face broke into a smile. ‘Right. I’ll do that, too.’
    ‘Here we are,’ said Annie. ‘Eighth floor.’
    They walked along the balcony between the windows and doors and the midriff-high fence, past bicycles without wheels, a pram and an abandoned fridge almost blocking their path. It was a hell of a view, Annie had to admit. If you turned to the west, you could see over the railway tracks to Eastvale, the castle ruins, the market square, the river falls, and beyond that, Hindswell Woods and the rising slopes of the dales beyond, all tinged grey by mist and rain. She could also see Eastvale’s “millionaires’ row”, where Banks’s new girlfriend Oriana lived and where people paid a fortune for the same view. And a big house,