At the kitchen table, I open a new file on my computer. I start from the beginning, and write down everything I can remember that has happened since the first box arrived. I’m trying to get some clarity in my thinking. If I’m going to believe the theory that the Vasiliev family were blackmailing Tito to incorporate their victims’ bones in porcelain pieces, I need to have the details set out. How do you prove a theory like that? I have ashes and some incriminating money. Unless someone finds a vase or some such with human bone material in it, I’ve pretty well got nothing. Except Marko said the Costello family did a DNA test on their box. That’s a link.

But there’s a good chance Tito never made any of the pieces that the Vasilievs wanted him to. So, no evidence. It’s not as if I’m going to find Buzzcut and force a confession out of him. Shiflon is hardly a reliable witness, and nobody else is implicated. Ben and Elaine are my only keys, and I don’t know for sure if they know anything. But I feel like it is worth writing down and then at least sending it to my young reporter friend, if nothing else. Who knows? He might make a career out of it. Because I do have ashes and the Costello family. The forensic police on the TV would be able to work out who the bones belong to, so I guess the real police would be able to do that, too, and they’re my next stop.

I make a cup of tea, put on some music, and take a chair out into the late sun. I think about Sarah. Is the fact that she has taken up with Lucy some sort of comment about me? To me? Probably not, but sort of. Her intention might be to stay away from everything that was, and anything like it. And then again, it could be just good old love. You have to take that where you find it. Elaine is having an effect on me, but it’s not love. Attraction, sure, which has got to be healthy. And the first re-emergence of something like lust. It suggests I’m recovering a bit. I mean, lust has to be a primal life force, right? I don’t imagine you can be lusting and suicidal at the same time. Perhaps I have a future.

My tea is too milky, but the sun is perfect. I toss the tea on the lawn, and shut my eyes to doze. But James’s voice rouses me, saying, Dad, you’ve got to take a risk. It’s boring otherwise. I know it’s not James’s voice, so I guess it’s me talking to myself, using his voice. But both of us are right. I go to the phone, and ring Elaine.

‘Elaine?’

‘Hi there.’