The boy, Bruce Wilson, lived in a three-bedroomed detached house on a quiet street in the Blackhall area of Edinburgh. I noted the well-tended garden. The burglar alarm. The brand new Range Rover parked in the driveway.

There was no sign of the uniformed officers Dutton had sent to canvass the neighbours. I wondered where they'd parked. At least one patrol car should be touring the area too, using a megaphone to ask if anyone had seen the boy. We hadn't passed it on the way but it would be out there, driving around. Standard procedure. Dutton would have seen to it. No matter how much I despised him, I couldn't deny that he knew his job.

The boy's mother answered the door before we reached the end of the path.

"Are you the police?" Mrs Wilson was 31 years old, according to the information Dutton passed along. But you'd have guessed at 40. She wore a light sweater, jeans, sandals. Her face looked as if the skin was being stretched in different directions. Her eyes were wet and red. She winked at me, which was odd. I wasn't sure whether to wink back or ignore it. Then she winked again and I realised it was a twitch.

I introduced myself. Erica did the same.

Mrs Wilson looked into Erica's eyes and said, "I'm so glad to see you."

She led us inside.

The sitting room had red walls. And a red ceiling. Ought to have been too much but it was a big room and the colour scheme worked. Lot of light, too, from the bay windows. Picked up the shine from the varnished floorboards, which was maybe why the room smelled faintly of floor polish. An enormous expensive-looking rug lay in front of a green-and-silver marble fireplace. The sofa and armchairs were white. And spotless. I was impressed she managed to keep them so spic and span with a kid around. Probably had a cleaner in a couple of times a week to give her a hand. No question she could afford it.