The door swings soundlessly open and a boy shuffles in. His navy trousers are splattered with

white chalk and paint, smudged into the fabric below the knees. He can’t be older than fourteen, but his face is gaunt, and I know without asking that this boy has faced hardship. He sways slightly where he stands, chalked hands gripping the side of his skateboard, like he’s afraid one of us might try and snatch it.

‘I didn’t do nofink,’ he mutters, glaring at us from underneath his greasy fringe, ‘the ‘ouse was like

that when I found it.’

Marcus raises a dubious eyebrow, but gestures for the boy to continue.

‘When I got to the ‘ouse, it was quiet, real quiet,’ he says, dirt-stained fingers scraping the edge of

his skateboard, ‘an’ I thought, if it was empty …’

‘You’d have an easy job?’ Marcus supplies, straightening his shirtsleeves.

‘Somefink like that,’ the boy admits sheepishly, ‘but I didn’t break nofink, ‘onest.’

Marcus sighs, leaning back against his desk. ‘That’s not how my boss will see it.’

The boy’s eyes widen, beady eyes threatening to pop out of his skull. ‘No,’ he protests, ‘I told you, I

didn’t do nofink! Whoever trashed that ‘ouse, it weren’t me.’

‘Maybe we should hear him out,’ I suggest, leaning in closer to Marcus to whisper, ‘I mean he hardly looks like a criminal mastermind.’

‘I can ‘ear you,’ the boy says sullenly, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘Sorry,’ I wince, ‘I was only trying to help.’

The boy shrugs, the motion requiring the use of his entire body. I watch as paint dislodges itself

from his trousers, falling in a graceful arc. The boy takes great delight in ensuring it marks the plush carpet.

Marcus sighs, steepling his fingers in thought. I hope he sees what I see, a scared little pickpocket, more concerned with where his next meal comes from than destroying a manor house.