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of course. Perhaps a bit more peace and quiet and less crime, too.
    Annie knocked on the door. A few moments later a young woman answered it on the chain and frowned at them. ‘Yes?’ she said, nervously touching her cheek. ‘What is it? Can I help you?’
    ‘Alex Preston?’
    The woman nodded.
    ‘Police,’ said Annie, flashing her warrant card. ‘Mind if we come in for a chat, love?’
    ‘Is it about Ian? Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Or Michael? Is it bad news?’
    ‘Why would you think that? Nothing’s happened to anyone as far as we know.’
    ‘That’s a relief.’ The woman took off the chain and opened the door. It led directly into the living room.
    Annie realised that she was probably as prejudiced as the next person, except Frank Lane, when it came to life on the East Side Estate – you got a blinkered view of such things when you were a copper – so she was surprised to see how clean and tidy the small flat was inside. Alex Preston clearly did the best she could with what little she had. The furniture, if inexpensive, was relatively new, polished and well kept, the walls a tasteful pastel, with small, framed photographic prints strategically placed here and there. The air smelled of pine freshener. The flat-screen TV didn’t dominate the room, but sat peacefully in its corner, out of the way until it was needed. An electric fire with fake coals stood in the fake fireplace, and framed photographs of a smiling young tow-headed boy stood on the mantelpiece. There were also a couple of shots of Alex with a young man, whom Annie took to be Mick Lane.
    Of course, Annie’s prejudice hadn’t vanished entirely, and nor had her suspicious nature. She found herself wondering just how and where Alex Preston and Mick Lane had got the money for all this.
    ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Alex asked. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee. Neither of us drink it.’
    ‘No, thanks,’ said Annie. ‘Maybe a glass of water? Those stairs . . .’
    ‘I’m sorry about the lift. It’s got a mind of its own, hasn’t it? Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We’ve been trying to get the council to fix it for weeks now, but you know what they’re like. Especially when it comes to this estate.’
    Annie could guess.
    Alex fetched them each a glass of water and sat down in the armchair, leaning forward, clasping her hands in her lap. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, showing to advantage her shapely figure. Fluffy blue slippers with pink pompoms added a homely touch. Her blonde hair, which looked natural to Annie’s trained eye, was tied back in a ponytail. Young and fresh-faced, she wore hardly any make-up and needed none. Her complexion was pale and flawless, she had a slightly upturned nose, a wide mouth and big eyes, a dark beguiling shade of blue. Young Doug Wilson seemed smitten, at any rate. Annie gestured for him to stop gawping and get out his notebook. He fumbled with his ballpoint pen.
    ‘What is it you want?’ Alex asked, sitting forward in her chair, the small frown of concern still wrinkling her smooth forehead. ‘Are you sure nothing’s wrong? It’s not Ian, is it? Has something happened to Ian?’
    ‘Ian? That’s your son, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes. He’s eight. He’s supposed to be at school.’
    ‘Then I’m sure that’s where he is. This isn’t about Ian, Ms Preston.’
    Alex Preston seemed to relax again. ‘Well, that’s good to know,’ she said. ‘Kids. You never stop worrying. The older kids mostly leave him alone, but now and then they tease him a bit. They’re not so bad, really.’ Then the frown reappeared. ‘What is it then? It’s not Ian, and you said nothing’s happened to Michael.’
    Michael , Annie noticed. Not Mick, as his father had called him. ‘Not as far as we know,’ she said. ‘But we would like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?’
    ‘That’s just it. That’s why I was worried when you knocked at the door. I haven’t seen