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unpredictable? Once Mrs Fenton had found her lying in a bath in reddening water, her wrists cut . . .
    It took Benet a long time to get hold of a London telephone directory E–K but at last she did and found the Fentons’ number. They were still there at number 55 Harper Lane, or Mrs Fenton was. The number was listed in the name of Mrs Constance Fenton, so perhaps her husband had died in the meantime. Benet dialled her own number again and, when there was no reply, Mrs Fenton’s. A young woman’s voice answered.
    â€˜That was my daughter,’ Constance Fenton said when she came to the phone. ‘I’ve got my daughter and my son-in-law and my grandson staying with me till their house is ready.’ She was a woman who had the rather pleasant habitof talking to you as if the last time you had conversed had been yesterday and not ten years ago.
    Benet asked her, warily, tactfully, if by any chance her mother was there.
    â€˜Your
mother
?’
    Then Benet knew at once Mopsa wasn’t there, hadn’t been there. Constance Fenton wanted to know all about Mopsa. Was she in London? When was she coming to visit? What a delightful surprise it was, how much she looked forward to seeing Mopsa!
    â€˜I know she’ll be in touch with you very soon,’ Benet said. She put the phone down. She had begun to feel sick with dread. Mopsa might be anywhere, a danger to herself and others.

3
    THE CHINESE BRIDGE spanned the canal from Winterside Road to the path that crossed the green lawns and penetrated the estate. Barry had wondered why they called it Chinese until he had seen one just like it on an old willow-pattern plate round at Iris’s. Winterside Down was a little world that had everything in it you wanted and plenty you didn’t. The streets were all named after people from the Labour Party’s past. There was a square in the middle of it called Bevan Square with a shopping precinct, a sub-post office, a unisex hair stylist, a video centre and a Turkish takeaway. Most of the people were of Greek or Irish or West Indian origin, though there were some Indians too. It was all quite new, the oldest houses only six years old, and it hadn’t yet settled down. They had built one tower block and then apparently decided people didn’t want tower blocks and were frightened of living in them, so that single tower stood out of the middle of Winterside Down like an enormous lighthouse, surrounded by the pygmy houses that people did want to live in.
    The Isadoros lived in two, they were such a big family. The council had put an arch between the hallways so that you could go through from one house to the other without going outside. Carol’s was just an ordinary single house, part of a terrace, one of the oldest. When you came into Winterside Down by way of the Chinese bridge, the first part of the estate you saw was the back of that terrace, and if Carol was at home, you could see her lights on. It seldom happened that Barry came home later than Carol, but if he did, or thought he was going to be later, he would look for her lights as soon as he came to the crown of the bridge.Her house was the eighth from where the path came into Summerskill Road. He would count, two-four-six-eight, and if the lights were on feel a surge of joy, a leaping of the heart.
    Mostly he got home first. It had been home to him for the past six months, not the kind of place he would have chosen to live in, but home because Carol was there. When she worked evenings at the wine bar, he didn’t come the Chinese bridge way but by the main turn-in from Lordship Avenue. Sometimes the Isadoros looked after Jason in the daytime and sometimes his grandmother, Iris, did or, rarely, his aunt Maureen. Barry called round at Iris’s place on his way home, but Jason had fallen asleep watching the TV and Iris had put him to bed. He might as well stop the night, why not? She was having him in the morning anyway.
    Barry