I try to tidy up a bit, and tackle the washing that has accumulated again on the sink. Then I go to the back freezer, and find some mince. I decide to make a spag bol that will cover meals for a few nights, including tonight.

Spaghetti bolognaise was the only meal besides steak and salad that I ever saw my father cook. When he moved to town, and visited Mum every day, he lived in a small unit near the hospital. He got meals on wheels occasionally, and he would often eat meat pies or order takeaway Chinese from the only place in town that offered it. It was a miserable existence, but he didn’t want to live with us, and he wanted to be near Mum. I took that to be a sentimental thing to do with old age. She was one of the few things, the few people, left of his old life. He hadn’t ever really taken Mum’s feelings into consideration. When he got round to it, for whatever reason, she was too far gone to know it.

By the time Tom’s car pulls into the driveway I have managed to waste the hours, and I’m not really sure how. He walks in, smiley and upbeat, in a clumsy cover for his nerves, but I like him for it. He has a small bag with him, which he drops in the corner. I offer him a beer, and am glad when he accepts. It is always good to have a partner in crime. We struggle through conversation about his work and his family.

I say I’ve made dinner, and he tells me there’s no need. I’m pretty sure he’s pretending he doesn’t need dinner because he completely forgot about that practicality. The way he’s eating my stale chips would suggest that I am right. So I serve spaghetti, meat, and sauce, and ask him about his research. Mid-mouthful, he gets up, goes to his bag, extracts his computer tablet, and returns. He turns it on, and is immediately more relaxed.

Without looking at the screen, he says, ‘My dad worked with a guy who knows a local detective really well. This guy knows I’m trying to be a journalist, and he heard about the trouble I had …’ Tom pauses as if giving me a chance to remember. ‘So he asks this detective if there is anything he can pass on to me about a local case. A story. Maybe a scoop sort of thing. This detective says he can’t really tell him anything about his current cases — it wouldn’t be right. Then he remembers a case concerning a family called the Vasilievs, and there’s a link to this area.’ Tom waves a fork at the room, takes a large mouthful, and chews quickly.