Back in the house, I sensed a huge amount of tension coming to the surface as both my parents braced themselves for a horrific row. My father had a face like thunder, not thrilled at being caught on the back foot courtesy of something that had clearly been out of his control, and my mother was making her famous face, chin in the air, tight-lipped, defiant. There were quite a few things I would have liked to say myself, but given the amount of alcohol that had been consumed and the tired and emotional state of all parties, I heroically held my tongue. Instead I went to put the kettle on, seething inwardly.

It was about eight o’clock by now, and my mother declared she was having an early night, which was a huge relief all round. Dad quietly watched the television whilst I went out to the car for a case of clothes which I took up to my old room. I gazed around dispiritedly. I felt like a time traveller in this familiar room with its faded rose print wallpaper and candlewick bedspread, and not in a good way. If I was the depressive type, now would be the time for it to kick in. To think about how much I’d left behind, at least in terms of a normal London life, and wonder what a woman of my age was doing, moving back with her parents. I let out a long, shaky breath and steadied myself. Then I wandered down the passage, looking in all the old familiar rooms. I pushed open the door to my father’s dressing room, where he now slept. On top of his chest of drawers were some pottery animals Helena and I had made at school. Inside his sock drawer I’d once looked for his military medals, to show the children. Instead I’d found letters from Michael. Thanking Dad for a Christmas present. But weirdly, referring to a loose tile on our roof, which he needed to get fixed in case it fell on someone in the garden. The next letter declined an invitation, on my behalf, to go to Ascot with them while Michael was away. It mentioned my car, which he said had a problem with the brakes. No one, except those who knew Michael well, and I include my father in this, would think it strange. But I’d gone cold. I knew exactly why my father had kept the letters. It made me catch my breath even now, but also feel extremely relieved to be here, and to be alone.

I went back to my room. I hung up my clothes and put a few things in the bathroom. The rest, I decided, like so much else, could wait until tomorrow.

The following morning, over breakfast, I tackled my parents on more prosaic matters. Like where, in God’s name, they’d found Danny?