‘It’s good of you to come,’ said his father. He wore a pair of baggy faded jeans, shirt open at the neck and a brown cardigan. ‘I can’t think. When was the last time I saw you?’

Abbott was about to remind him when his father added, ‘And how is that lovely wife of yours? And my grandson?’

The question was like a dagger. He swallowed. ‘They’re fine, Dad.’ The words were croaked. ‘They send their love.’

‘Good to hear. Good to hear. He must be walking now, isn’t he?’

Abbott thought of the last time he’d seen Nathan. Nathan dying. He thought of a tiny little boy, pictures that appeared on his laptop screensaver: Nathan sitting up in his cot. Nathan crawling. Nathan sitting cross-legged on his bedroom carpet grinning up at the camera, no older than three. A perfect little boy. A wonder of possibility that had been snuffed out by greed and revenge.

‘Bet he runs you a merry little dance,’ chortled his father, happy and jowly, eyes bright with pleasure.

‘Yes, he does, Dad. He does that.’

For a second, Abbott wondered whether it was worth pursuing any line of enquiry with his father let alone the one he had planned. Remembering what the nurse had said, how his dad’s long-term memory was likely to be better than short-term, he thought, Here goes nothing.

‘Dad, I need to talk to you about Chris.’

His father gave a small start. His brow clouded. For a moment, Abbott wondered if he would even remember Chris.

‘We don’t talk about that,’ said his father, all that grandfatherly happiness erased.

‘No, we never talked about it when I was growing up,’ said Abbott. ‘But I want to talk about him now, please. I need to ask you something.’

Ted Abbott’s fingers fretted at the denim of his jeans. His eyes went to the window, looking out into the car park. Abbott pressed him. ‘I need you to tell me what happened that day.’

His dad looked at him, clear-eyed. ‘Sounds to me like you already know. Sounds to me like you’re trying to catch me out, make me feel bad for what happened years ago. Would that be right?’

All Abbott said in reply was, ‘I need to hear it from you.’

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

For a moment Abbott thought his father might simply clam up. But then he spoke. ‘Your mother wanted to tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t see the use in it meself.’ He threw up his hands as though considering the dilemma afresh. ‘What could we say to you? When could we say it? What good would it have done you? Anyway.’

Abbott exhaled, rubbing his hands over his stubble. ‘“What good would it have done?” How about the fact that I would have known the truth?’

‘Sounds like you know the truth now.’