It had been easy enough to trace Anita’s ex-husband to the small local authority estate in Wigan. Some of the houses showed signs of neglect—rusting cars on the drives, gardens untouched for years, abandoned toys and overflowing wheelie bins forming an assault course—but the four at the end, including Champion’s, were well cared for. Receiving no answer to his knock, Dylan walked round to the back of the house. Here, on a large expanse of snow-covered lawn, was a child’s swing. A man strode down the path of next door’s garden. Unlike Dylan, who had a thick overcoat on, he was defying the weather by wearing a T-shirt. “Excuse me,” Dylan called out. The man walked up to the dividing fence. He looked suspicious. “I’m looking for Ian Champion,” Dylan said. “He’ll be down on his allotment.” “And where would that be?” “You go down to the end of the road and you’ll see a post office on your left.
