‘You mind your manners, young whippersnapper!’ growled Reg. ‘I was doing dawn starts when you were still messing your nappies.’

‘So get some rest now,’ said Dave kindly, but firmly. ‘Besides, if you’re not here, who’s going to save me from Maud’s tea in the morning?’

Reg’s wrinkles gathered into a smile.

‘Good point,’ he said, sitting gratefully back in his chair. ‘My pot will be warm before the sun is. That’s a promise.’

Dave smiled. He was heading for the door of the cosy cottage when a brisk knock stopped him. He looked nervously at Reg. This wasn’t his house. It wasn’t for him to open it. And he knew that most of Little Motbury wouldn’t be too happy to see him.

‘I’ll go,’ said Reg, rising again with difficulty, his legs stiff.

‘Hello . . . Oh,’ he said, half-opening the door. ‘I don’t think now’s a good—’

‘Please,’ said a heavily accented voice.

It was only one word. But Dave knew the voice. The memory of his screams had haunted him for ten years.

He sighed and walked to the door.

‘Mr Kowalski,’ he said, his head bowed in shame. ‘Say what you have to say. You have every right. But I must find—’

‘Your son,’ said Mr Kowalski. ‘Of course. We just saw him on the news. I am so very sorry.’

Dave looked up in shock. This man, from whom he’d taken so much, was sorry for him?

‘Please – come in, Aleksander,’ Reg said. ‘It’s chilly out.’

Dave felt a shiver at the words – his son was out there somewhere. And it was chilly. Elliot must be so cold.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Kowalski, handing Reg a casserole dish.

‘A stew. For you all. From my wife,’ he added. ‘Her response to a crisis is to cook. Her response to anything, actually . . .’

He patted his broad stomach with an awkward laugh before turning to face Dave.

‘He – he came to see me,’ he began, faltering. ‘Your son. Earlier this year.’

‘Elliot came to you?’ said Dave. ‘Why?’

‘For answers, I think,’ said Aleksander. ‘But I was too stupid to see that at the time. I shouted at him. I scared him. I was wrong.’

‘You have absolutely nothing to apologize for,’ said Dave earnestly. ‘Everything is my fault.’

‘Not everything,’ said Mr Kowalski. ‘My own father escaped Poland during the war. They were terrible times. Father never gave me details, but he told me he did dreadful things to survive. Things he could never forget. Things that other people might never forgive. But he did what he had to do. That was the only way.’

Dave nodded. He knew something of that.