They pulled on to Yvette Thomson’s road and Brook spotted Len Poole cycling arthritically along the pavement in front of them. He held a large envelope tightly against one handlebar. ‘A pensioner in a tracksuit,’ said Terri. ‘Could anything be more wrong?’ To Brook’s surprise, Poole turned on to Yvette Thomson’s driveway, dismounted and rapped aggressively on the glass door. ‘Pull over, Terri.’ Terri looked at him and followed his eyes back to the squat figure of Poole. Without asking for explanation she pulled to the kerb and turned off the engine. Brook kept his eyes trained on the house as Poole looked around at neighbouring houses while he waited, flicking the envelope against his thigh. When the door didn’t open he rapped on the glass more vigorously, then walked to the large bay window and peered inside. ‘What’s wrong, Dad? Why have we stopped?’ Brook reached into the back seat without breaking his surveillance. ‘I’ve got to drop off this laptop.’ ‘This piece of junk,’ said Terri, examining it through the plastic.
