‘Oh,’ said Zoe, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, when she opened the door and saw him there. ‘Hello. Twice in one day.’ She was wiping her hands on a grey- and- white striped tea- towel and it was only then that Dan realized, too late, that it must be getting on for five- thirty and she was probably busy making dinner. Of all the things he had pondered on, cycling along the river path to Kew, this one had not occurred to him. Good start, Dan, he thought with a sigh.

‘Hi,’ he said. She was still unsmiling, he noticed in dismay. ‘Okay if I come in? Just thought I’d . . .’ He trailed off, embarrassed. Just thought I’d pop round and see how you all are, he’d been about to say but the words sounded trite, when it had taken him this long to bother. ‘Thought I’d say hi,’ he said weakly instead. ‘Again.’

She lifted a shoulder, her mouth a flat line, as if she didn’t especially care what he did, but held the door wider for him nevertheless.

‘Thanks,’ he said, lugging his bike up the steps.

Taking care not to leave an oily mark as he leaned it against the cream- coloured wall, he found his eye falling on a framed photograph hanging nearby: of Patrick and Zoe signing the register on their wedding day. There was Patrick in his best charcoal- grey suit, a white carnation in the buttonhole, his thick dark hair neatly cropped. His face was tilted as he gazed at Zoe with such love, such adoration, it burned Dan’s eyes to see it. To have and to hold, till death do us part. Oh, Patrick, he thought, suddenly desolate again. How was it possible that his brother was no longer present, wandering through to slap Dan on the back and offer him a beer? All right, mate?

Yeah, not bad. You?

‘Sorry,’ he said, realizing he was standing there in silent mourning. He’d been right about the quietness of the house, he thought. The atmosphere was like a held breath. A suppressed sob. ‘Um, yeah. So I thought . . . Can we talk?’

‘Sure,’ she said, unmoving. She did hate him. She didn’t even want him to go any further into the house.

‘Could we . . . ?’ The words stuck in his throat.

Patrick and Zoe had always been the most generous hosts, pressing food and drink on you, urging you to stay – There’s no rush, sit down, help yourself! – but today resentment radiated from her in waves. Go away, go away, her body language said. You should have stopped him. He’d still be here, alive, if it wasn’t for you.

Dan forced himself to finish his sentence. ‘. . . maybe go in the kitchen?’