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Sperring, reluctantly, following. ‘And besides,’ said Phil once they had almost reached the door, ‘helping old ladies across the road? You’d be dead from boredom within a month.’
    Sperring didn’t answer.
    Letisha Watson lived on the ninth floor of Trescothick Tower. An inner-city Sixties tower block that, like all other inner-city Sixties tower blocks, had promised to be the future of housing. Cities in the sky. And like all other inner-city Sixties tower blocks soon became the exact opposite. The concrete and brick were crumbling, the wind ghosting through the widening cracks. Walkways were sided by wire mesh to stop children climbing off, being thrown off or, like those depressed just by having to live there, throwing themselves off. It had become a textbook sink estate; a dumping ground for the problem families and the socially undesirable, the unwelcome asylum seekers and immigrants. Like a rescue shelter for stray, mistreated and aggressive animals. But unlike the animal shelter, no one would come to release these people, give them a new start, a new life.
    Phil had left the crime scene, giving orders as he did so. Khan was to head up the door-to-door, checking to see if anyone in the vicinity had seen or heard anything. Seeing how carefully the crime scene had been left he didn’t expect much. But it was something that had to be done, a cosmetic exercise in hopeless hope.
    Imani Oliver was still at the hospital with Darren Richards with instructions to call Phil as soon as he came round.
    In the meantime, Phil and Sperring had decided to question Letisha Watson, Darren Richards’ previous girlfriend. Phil didn’t think she would come up with anything useful but it had to be done.
    Hopeless hope.
    They found the door they wanted. The flat looked semi-derelict; the windows filthy, the surrounds stained and mildewed. The door itself, all dents, scratches, gouges and flaked paint, looked like a failed boxer who had come off second best throughout his fight career. Phil knocked. Waited.
    ‘Bit early for her sort,’ said Sperring.
    Phil looked at him. ‘What are you doing?’
    Sperring held up his hands in the process of pulling on latex gloves. ‘Can’t be too careful, can you? Wouldn’t want to put my hand down on some upturned needle. Or anything else, for that matter.’
    Phil shook his head, knocked again.
    Eventually the door was opened. Phil held up his warrant card. ‘Letisha Watson?’
    The woman who had opened the door looked to be still asleep. She was wearing an old T-shirt with a faded gold logo on the front proclaiming how fabulous she was. A pair of equally old pyjama bottoms covered her lower body. Her skin was naturally dark, mixed race, but pallid and unhealthy looking, and she was young but the tiredness and strain in her eyes aged her.
    ‘Oh fuck,’ she said and walked away down the hall, leaving the front door open.
    Phil and Sperring exchanged glances and followed her in, Sperring carefully closing the door behind them.
    They followed her into the living room. A fake-leather three-piece suite, worn and stained, cheap wooden furniture with an off-brand flatscreen TV in one corner. There was soiled clothing and other domestic debris scattered about. It looked like the owner had started out with good intentions where upkeep was concerned but found it all too much trouble.
    ‘What d’you want?’ Letisha Watson said, sitting down in an armchair and lighting up a Rothmans. Phil thought it would take more than a good night’s sleep to displace the black rings round her eyes.
    ‘Darren Richards,’ said Phil, sitting down on the sofa. Sperring perched on the edge, like he was either frightened of catching something or wanted to make a run for it. Or both.
    Letisha Watson sucked down a lungful of air, let it go. It hung in the living room like a miserable cloud, creating its own microclimate around her. ‘What about him?’
    ‘We believe you were his girlfriend.’
    ‘I was. Till he