The picture of Norton showed a guy who was older than Abbott, but still not exactly ready for retirement. ‘And now you’re dead,’ said Abbott, toasting him with the bottle. ‘All that money and you can’t cheat your fate.’

He switched off the TV, reaching instead for his iPod, inserting the earbuds and allowing the music to work its magic. LTJ Bukem, his go-to tunes for soothing himself.

Allowing, also, the booze to do its job.

As he settled back, the words of Tess came to him. ‘Alex, I think that your parents lied to you.’

He and Tess had been in the London restaurant Kettner’s at the time. A meal that he had hoped would be of great emotional significance considering that their last meeting had ended in bed. In fairness, it had indeed been of emotional significance, just not the kind he expected.

It went back to her, to Tess, he realised, as he lay, listening to Bukem and wondering how he found himself here, at this particular juncture in his life. It went back to her, but first, it went back to Chris.

Two boys playing in a field . . .

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

They were just kids at the time, living in Matlock. Chris was eleven, Abbott nine. They had been playing near the river under strict instructions never to go past what the Abbott family knew as ‘the second bridge’. Past the second bridge the water was deep and fast running. The banks on either side rose vertiginously. No place for children to be playing.

They had removed their shoes and were paddling. Chris had his plimsolls in his hand, but he’d lost his footing and one of his shoes slipped out of his grasp and went into the water. The next second they had watched helplessly as it bobbed along, caught up in the current and racing distressingly fast towards that feared ‘second bridge’.

Chris had called out. ‘Alex.’ And Abbott had gone racing along the river, aware that the water was getting deeper, coming up to his thighs. Aware, also, of being pummelled by the current. He reached the mouth of the tunnel where inside it was dark and dank and there was no sign of Chris, who must have been pulled through and out the other side.

‘Chris,’ Abbott had called at the top of his voice.

So deep was his fear of the tunnel that instead of risking it, he turned and ran to the safety of the shallow water, scrambled up the bank, and then went racing along the field.

‘Chris,’ he called some more, again in vain, unable to see Chris in the river.

But he never saw his brother again.