Her name was Annie Eskdale. She was a very small woman wearing an old-fashioned wraparound pinafore over a faded T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. Although in her thirties, discontent had marred her face with early wrinkles. Her eyes were small and radiating suspicion. The council house she lived in was dingy and smelled of cabbage. At first, she whined that the clothes were her own. Hamish twisted back the neckline of the dress her son was wearing and said, “How could you afford to pay for an Armani dress?” “Thrift shop,” she screeched. Charlie produced a pair of handcuffs and held them up. “I am charging you with defeating the ends of justice. A right shame it is, too. Social services will look after your boy.” She broke down and, between sobs, said she had found two suitcases up on the moors. She hadn’t meant to do wrong, but times were hard. Her man had left her. Hamish turned to the boys.
