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bleeding little Hitler my mum might not have run off.”
    “Never mind that,” Graham said quietly. “You don’t know nothing about it, you was only a kid. I just want you to do well for yourself,” he pleaded. “Look, I’ve not done much. Never had the opportunity. But you’re a bright lad. If you work hard you can go to university, get yourself a good education.”
    “What’s the point? There’s no jobs anyway.”
    “It’s not always going to be like this, Trevor. I know the country’s going through a bad time right now. You don’t need to tell me that. But look to the future, lad. It’ll be five or six years by the time you’ve done your ‘A’ Levels and your degree. Things can change a lot in that time. All you need to do is stay in a bit more and do your homework. You never found it hard, you know you can do it.”
    “It’s boring.”
    “Look what happened to Mick, then,” Graham went on, his voice rising with anger again. “Left school a year ago and still on the bloody dole. Sharing a hovel with that layabout brother of his, father run off God knows where and his mother never home to take care of him.”
    “Lenny’s not a layabout. He had a job in London. Just got made redundant, that’s all. It wasn’t his fault.”
    “I’m not going to argue with you, Trevor. I want you to stay in more and spend some time on your schoolwork. I might not have made much out of my life, but you can—and you’re bloody well going to, even if it kills me.”
    Trevor stood up and reached for his satchel. “Better be off,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to be late for school, would I?”
    After the door slammed, Graham Sharp put his head in his hands and sighed. He knew that Trevor was at a difficult age—he’d been a bit of a lad himself at fifteen—but if only he could persuade him that he had so much to lose. Life was hard enough these days without making it worse for yourself. Since Maureen had walked out ten years ago, Graham had devoted himself to their only child. He would have sent Trevor to a public school if he’d had enough money, but had to settle for the local comprehensive. Even there, despite all the drawbacks, the boy had always done well—top of the class, prizes every Speech Day—until last year, when he took up with Mick Webster.
    Graham’s hands shook as he picked up the breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink. Soon it would be opening time. At least since he’d stopped doing morning papers he got a bit of a lie-in. In the old days, when Maureen was around, he’d had to get up at six o’clock, and he’d kept it going as long as he could. Now he couldn’t afford to employ a flock of paper-carriers, nor could he manage to pay the assistant he would need to deal with other business. As things were, he could just about handle it all himself—orders, accounts, stock checks, shelf arrangements—and usually still manage to come up with a smile and a hello for the customers.
    His real worry was Trevor, and he didn’t know if he was going about things the right way or not. He knew he had a bit of a temper and went on at the lad too much. Maybe it was better to leave himalone, wait till he passed through the phase himself. But perhaps then it would be too late.
    Graham stacked the dishes in the drainer, checked his watch, and walked through to the shop. Five minutes late. He turned the sign to read OPEN and unlocked the door. Grouchy old Ted Croft was already counting out his pennies, shuffling his feet as he waited for his week’s supply of baccy. Not a good start to the day.
II
     
    Banks reluctantly snapped off his Walkman in the middle of Dido’s lament and walked into the station, a Tudor-fronted building in the town centre, where Market Street ran into the cobbled square. He said “Good morning” to Sergeant Rowe at the desk and climbed upstairs to his office.
    The whitewashed walls and black-painted beams of the building’s exterior belied its modern, functional