After twice retracing her route, she pulled up outside the front door just as the doctor was leaving. "Kiddy's not too badly hurt," he told her. "Couple of superficial wounds to the upper arm, which only required a dressing." He glanced back and winced at the hysterical shrieking and sobbing from inside. "That's the mother. She's in a worse state than the kid. I offered her a sedative, but she chucked it at me." He edged past her. "I wish I could stay, but I've got other calls." He plunged out into the street, relieved to get away from the noise.

Liz switched off her radio. She didn't want her interview with an overwrought mother interrupted by trivial messages. She homed in on the crying which was now accompanied by a banging noise. It led her to the child's bedroom, a small room with a single cot, its walls decorated with nursery wallpaper.

The banging was caused by a middle-aged man who was hammering nails into the window frame which had been forced open by the intruder. A young woman, the mother, jet black hair, slightly olive skin, was sitting in a blue-painted chair, rocking from side to side, moaning and sobbing continuously. Liz sighed. She obviously wouldn't be much help.

A plumpish woman in her fifties was standing next to the mother, holding the child, wrapped in a blanket. The child, a boy, barely a year old, his face flushed and tear-stained, had cried himself to an exhausted sleep.

"Detective Sergeant Maud," announced Liz, holding out her warrant card.

"Took your time getting here," said the man, knocking in one last nail and putting down the hammer. He gave the window frame a testing shake. "That should keep the bugger out."

"If you could try to avoid touching things," said Liz. "There could be fingerprints."

"You wouldn't need fingerprints if you got here earlier and caught him," said the man.