“I DON’T THINK ANYONE’S home, sir,” Georgie said as she stood with Nathan on the doorstep of the address the police computer had for Lee Harding. “Maybe he lived alone and there’s no-one to answer the door now he’s dead.”
“Perhaps,” Nathan agreed. His instincts told him otherwise, though. The information he had on Harding was sketchy, but he was pretty sure that the deceased petty criminal was not the sort to live alone. He might live in one of the cheapest and least desirable neighbourhoods Branton had to offer, as evidenced by the unkempt, jungle-like gardens at the front of almost every house on the street, and the boarded-up windows and graffiti, but he was still likely to need a housemate to help him pay the rent.
The persistence that had prompted him to ring the doorbell three time
