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trip?’
    ‘You’d think she would’ve invested in bawl-proof mascara,’ Henry added in his waspish manner. ‘All Coco and no class.’
    ‘Poison, actually,’ I corrected.
    ‘Hmn, with a nose like yours it’s a wonder you can tell.’
    I could take that kind of remark from Henry - unless it was on a bad day, that is.
    Ida flopped her bulky frame into our one and only guest’s chair and exhaled a rasping breath. She crossed her ankle over her knee and eased off a shoe. She rubbed her toes. Who did her wrong? Is the lady after revenge or recompense, Dis?’ ‘Nothing like that. Shelly Ripstone is a grieving widow.’
    Henry peered winsomely through his spectacles as if interested in the woman’s status, that she just might be the one for him. We all knew that was pretence though, but we were never quite sure if Henry knew we knew. ‘Of course, she is reasonably attractive, despite her kitschy style.’
    Ida shot me a secretive glance, then let her eyeballs swivel towards heaven.
    What is it then?’ said Philo, sitting on the corner of Henry’s desk. Henry frowned and moved his accounts books further away from the black youngster’s butt. ‘Problems with the will? Dodgy relatives turning up for a share?’
    ‘A trace,’ I informed them all. ‘A baby son she hasn’t seen for eighteen years.’ The answer was met by a collective groan.
    ‘I thought we never took on a trace for anyone missing more than ten years,’ Ida grumbled.
    She was right: that kind of contact rarely earned out - too many phone calls, too many document searches, too many blind alleys; and often the client’s reluctance to pay the bill when we came up with zilch. To make matters worse as far as this particular assignment was concerned, we didn’t even have a photograph - let alone a description - of what the mark once looked like (and even if we had, what use would a picture of a baby be?).
    Now I broke the really good news. ‘Our biggest stumbling block is that her son may not be alive anyway.’
    ‘Yes, I’d say that was a definite snag to finding him for his poor dear mum.’ Henry, as caustic as ever. ‘Dead people rarely turn up again, do they?’
    Ida removed her other shoe and wriggled the toes on that foot. ‘In fact, that should make it easier. There would be a record of his death somewhere.’
    There is,’ I said. ‘Or, there was. The hospital where the baby was born. Problem is when Mrs Ripstone - her name was Shelly Teasdale when she had the baby, by the way -tried to track down those records herself, she discovered the hospital no longer exists. It burnt down ten years ago and all the records, along with several patients and medical staff, went up with it.’
    Henry slid his fingers beneath the glasses and massaged his closed eyes. ‘Er, you’re losing me here. Did - does - the mother know her son is dead or what?’
    ‘She was informed of the baby’s death minutes, maybe only seconds, after it was born.’
    Now he was shaking his head wearily. Then why on earth has she come to us?’
    The reason sounded even more crazy when I heard myself telling them.

4
    Before heading home that evening to my basement flat on the other side of Brighton, I made a little detour. I’d taken an instruction the previous week from a building society for a house repossession and had gone along with a court bailiff, who was the only one with the legal authority to repo the particular property, and I’d stood by while he went about his business. Fortunately, the occupants who’d reneged on their PS90,000 loan from the Halifax had already skipped, so there was no problem with eviction. Less fortunate though, for the creditor that is, those same people had trashed the house before leaving.
    Now I know it’s easy to feel sorry for anyone turned out of their home, but the truth of it is it generally isn’t their home. They’ve borrowed the money, a large amount at that, and refused - yes, refused, in this case - to pay it back. So the