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nodding acquaintance at least, she couldn’t say with any certainty who lived where.
    She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but some reckless impulse sent her next door to number 45. She knocked and almost immediately heard footsteps. Now it came to her, who might live here. The ageing hippy.
    Sure enough, the man who opened the door was in his early sixties, tall and thin, with long wispy grey hair and white stubble on his chin. Moist brown eyes, bisected by a pair of half-moon glasses. He wore yellow chinos and a pale blue collarless shirt. He was barefoot.
    ‘Hi!’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘It’s, er, Maurice, isn’t it?’
    ‘Lawrence,’ he corrected her. ‘Lawrence Wright.’
    ‘Yes, er, sorry to bother you. I just wondered if you know anything about the people next door?’
    ‘Next door?’ His voice was crisp and considered. ‘What’s the problem?’
    ‘No problem. Is it empty, do you know?’
    ‘I believe so. Occasionally there’s a noise, but that could be attributed to vibrations from the next house along.’ He tutted. ‘The perils of terraced accommodation.’
    ‘Yes, exactly.’ She was grinning like an imbecile. ‘Well, it was just me being nosy. Sorry to have bothered you.’
    She retreated, cringing at the way he was appraising her. His cheek bulged as he worked his tongue thoughtfully in the corner of his mouth.
    ‘Do you like wine?’
    ‘I – yes, well, I drink enough of it!’ She heard herself laugh and thought: oh, good grief! Thankfully Evie chose that moment to issue a little yelp. ‘Must get going, sorry.’
    ‘I make my own, you see. Why not pop over one afternoon for a glass or two? Tuesdays or Fridays are best for me.’
    ‘I’ll, um, have to check my diary. But thanks.’ She moved away, leaning over the buggy as if Evie was demanding her attention. She’d gone a few paces before she realised she was heading in the wrong direction. And now there was a van turning into the street. It accelerated towards her, flashing its lights a couple of times.
    Alice froze. Should she run back to Lawrence Wright and plead for help?
    The van was slowing as it closed in. A plump hand emerged from the driver’s window to gesture at her. Alice looked carefully and experienced a relief so profound, it rivalled the moment when the midwife confirmed that her newborn baby was intact and in perfect health.
    It was Uncle Steve, riding to the rescue.

Eight
    T he offices of LiveFire were comprised of four rooms, one of which housed a studio for stop-motion animation that also doubled as a screening room. As the business expanded, Harry and Sam had ended up squeezed into a single office, with the other kept for meetings. The remaining area formed an open-plan workspace. At any one time there were several people out with clients or working elsewhere, so they just about managed to cope with the space available.
    Harry was extremely glad that Sam was starting the day at an advertising agency in London, pitching for some work on a series of phone commercials. Had they been together in such close proximity, Harry would have found it impossible to conceal his anxiety.
    He knew he looked pale and wrung-out, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling. Then again, since returning to work as a new father it had become a running joke that he was now a crumbling ruin of a man, so his current state didn’t arouse any undue curiosity. Another saving grace was that deadlines were approaching on a couple of major projects, so no one had time for long conversations. After a quick tour of the desks Harry was able to retreat to his office for some much-needed solitude.
    He’d feared that last night’s ordeal would prove too much of a distraction, but once he’d got the Maya software running he was soon immersed in another world. He’d been sent a basic storyboard for a big sci-fi movie and asked to create a digital animation to accompany the key set-piece scenes. As Harry understood it, the picture was