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smoking. Why? Why was Kelly dressed like that? She looked like a common tart in that top, that ultra-short skirt . . . and why the apron? Suddenly he understood — she must work there. She’d got herself a job serving greasy burgers and coffee in that back-street shit hole. That’s why her hair was scraped back in that unflattering way. But why would she do that? Why would she need to get a job, and what had she done with the kid?
    He felt the nerves start. His hands were shaking, and that sick feeling in his stomach was back again. This was all his fault. He watched her take a last pull on the cigarette. He watched as she threw it to the floor, stubbed it out and then straight away, sparked up another one. She was chain smoking. Had he driven her to this? With her hair like that she looked all pinched and pale. She was frightened.
    He hated that idea. What was she afraid of? She’d nothing to fear, not from him, he would never harm her, not after what she’d done for him — for them.
    Why the job? He didn’t want her to work; she shouldn’t have to. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and thought. Why, why, why? She needs the money — of course she does; she has to eat. That must be it. Ice couldn’t provide anymore, could he?
    All his fault — all his fault . The words filled his head, mocking him and blocking out the noise of the traffic. He had to think. He had to think fast; he had to do something to make it right for her.
    The traffic lights changed, he’d have to go, move off. One last look, and she was still sat there, still smoking. He knew what to do now. It came to him in a flash. He’d give her the money, Ice’s money.
    * * *
    Malcolm Masheda’s tall frame swaggered across the open ground between the tower blocks. He walked as if he owned the place. His hands were casually stuffed in his tracksuit pockets. A matching hoodie covered his head, casting his dark face into deeper shadow.
    “Hey, man!” Two kids skimmed past on their bikes. “You watch where you’s going.”
    They obviously hadn’t recognised him, and that was bad. He was annoyed; his reputation must be slipping. He was losing his touch, going soft. Cuba’s fault. He smiled. Cuba was a force for good, roaring into his life like a thunderbolt. She stood no nonsense — and Cuba Hassan wanted him out of the gang. She wanted him straight and clean, and she’d promised to help.
    He raised his eyes to a deck ten floors up on one of the blocks and spotted them: police. Like most of the youths around here, he had built-in radar where the police were concerned. He didn’t need this. He was keeping to the rules, and he didn’t want dragging down the nick. Within seconds he’d swerved and dodged into the community centre housed on the ground floor of the tower block he lived in.
    * * *
    “This is a waste of time,” Rocco said, rapping on the door again.
    “Lucky break though, Julian finding that receipt.”
    “That remains to be seen, Dodgy” Rocco tempered. “I think we need to get moving. We need to find young Malcolm. We’ll achieve nothing hanging around here waiting to hassle his mother.”
    “It’d be her receipt though, she’ll be the one who buys the groceries. So how do you reckon the killer got hold of that particular carrier bag?”
    “Stole it, acquired it,” Rocco shrugged. “How many plastic bags do you see blowing in the streets around here? But a chat with Malcolm will help to clear this up.”
    Dodgy stuck his face to the letter box and shouted again. “There’s no one there, all doors leading off the hallway are closed and there’s a lot of post on the mat,” he said, finally standing up.
    “We’ve given it our best shot, maybe she’s gone away.” It was cold and way up here on the tenth floor the wind blew right through you. Rocco turned his collar up and shivered.
    “We could wait,” Dodgy suggested.
    Rocco shook his head — no way, not in this weather. The lad was green, they couldn’t