That makes it sound as if the loss of James is one thing only: a child gone. It is not that. It is so many things. We threw and kicked balls around in the backyard, teasing each other, making up heroic commentaries, whenever I was available. We talked about school and sport and our observations of people, and made stupid jokes that Sarah couldn’t stand, or pretended she couldn’t stand. I taught him things that my father had taught me, and sometimes he was openly bored with my teaching. I watched him closely — growing, reaching out, connecting with others, and he didn’t mind my gaze. I like to think we had given him enough love and confidence that it didn’t bother him. And he fucking well liked me. I’m sure he did. We got on. Which was the greatest surprise in my life. That’s not what my father’s generation hoped for. They wanted respect, hard work, and strength. Open dislike was accepted, as long as integrity or at least toughness prevailed. They could be proud, but friendship was so far down the list of priorities it barely made it onto the page. So the loss is not just one thing. It is so many things that I cannot name them all.

As I get close to Stony Creek, I realise that catching the mailman near the village won’t be as helpful as I’d thought. If I really think Elaine or someone to do with her is involved, I should meet the mailman halfway between my place and the village, and work towards home. But if I do this, it means I’m certain no one in the village is sending the boxes — and I’m not sure that’s true.

As I drive past crop stubble and fresh green wheat, I try to calculate the best approach to take, but I give up and go with my gut. There is too much odd stuff going on at Elaine’s for her not to be the most likely suspect.