‘It takes time to clear these things up. It’ll happen soon I suspect. Maybe in a few days.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded neither happy nor sad.

He settled on a change of subject.

‘Do you want to go through it with me?’

She shook her head. ‘I know it.’

‘You know your words?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you know the sin you’re going to confess?’

She nodded.

‘And what is it?’

‘I’m not telling,’ she said, wide-eyed.

Chandler feigned shock. ‘Is it that bad? Do I need to call Jim and Tanya in to take a statement?’

‘Noooo,’ she said, yelping with laughter.

‘So why can’t you tell?’

‘It should be a secret,’ she said, before looking up at him with big brown eyes. ‘Unless you tell me what you confessed. Your first time.’

Chandler was stumped. He couldn’t remember what his big sin had been. Probably something trivial that seemed like a big deal when he was eleven. If he were asked to come up with one now he knew what he would confess. Forgiveness for all those he had let down over the years. Teri . . . Sarah . . . Jasper . . . Martin.

He left her with a gentle kiss on her forehead. She told him to go away and let her sleep.

As he went back into the living room, he saw that his parents were engrossed in some TV game show, all flashing lights and overexcited contestants, whatever his mum’s latest fad was. Everyone was home and everything was normal. Until the knock on the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Chandler before his mum could wrestle herself from the sofa. He was glad he did.

Answering the door he was presented with a bedraggled-looking Mitch crowding the doorstep, today’s suit tilted off his shoulders like the scales of justice gone askew, the shirt creased, as he leaned on the buttress of the porch.

‘What are you doing here, Mitch?’

‘Yes, Mitch,’ said Mitch, holding up a half-empty bottle of brown liquid, probably bourbon. From the wide bottom and thick glass it looked like an expensive bottle. ‘Not “Inspector” tonight, eh?’

‘What do you want?’ asked Chandler.

‘A drink. A truce.’

Mitch’s voice was loud. He was bordering on drunk and barely managing to disguise it.

‘A truce?’ What should have felt like old times – him and Mitch hanging around on the porch – felt more sinister. A souring of a memory.

‘We got off on the wrong foot I think.’

Chandler sighed. ‘Look, Mitch, I appreciate it, but it’s late and I’m trying to spend time with my kids. You, drunk, on my porch is the last thing I need.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ said Mitch, raising his voice.