She might have told Yvonne that she was too tired to wait. She might have skipped the baby’s bath that night. She might never have taken her hand away from him as he lay on his changing table. She might have reacted instead of just trusting that everything was fine.

In the dimly lit room, she leans forward and kisses Anton’s pale cheek. Sudden emotion leaps in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I understand what it’s like. I know.’

16

Hilary

Hilary is at home when the ambulance arrives. It’s late, but neither Greg nor she has been able to sleep. They are in the living room, watching The Last of the Mohicans on Netflix, when blue lights flash through the Venetian blinds. Greg hits pause but Hilary’s already off the couch, peering through the slats.

‘It’s Number Fourteen,’ she tells him.

A small crowd has gathered by the time they get outside. She spots the Kellys, and Jane and Paul Grant, Will and Maria Bolton both in dressing-gowns. Greg goes to stand beside Martin Cooper – a widower, who lives at Number 38 – while Hilary pulls on a sweater and follows him.

‘Any idea who it’s for?’ Greg asks.

Martin, a small man in his mid-sixties, shrugs. ‘I assume it’s Anton.’

‘Do you know what happened to him?’ Hilary asks, trying to push down on the panic rising inside. What if he’s dying in there and nobody’s with him? What if he’s already dead?

Martin stares at her. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are, my dear.’

Murmured conversation ripples through the gathering. She hears one of the newer residents say: ‘Isn’t that the guy in the papers? You know – the murderer?’

Idle speculation follows: a revenge attack, some crazed relative of the murder victim seeking atonement, a prison feud that’s spilt out into the quiet suburbs. Hilary shifts her weight impatiently from one foot to the other, her jaws clamped together. These people, she thinks, don’t have a fucking clue.

While they wait, she scans the crowd, but there’s no sign of Leah or Jake.

A door to the house opens, and one of the paramedics emerges – a stocky woman, blonde hair drawn back into a stubby ponytail. A hush falls over the crowd as she comes down the steps and swings open the two rear doors of her vehicle. Without thinking, Hilary moves towards her and asks: ‘Is he dead?’

‘Please step back, madam,’ the paramedic says, before climbing up into the vehicle for some equipment to take into the house.

Hilary feels Greg’s hand clasping her upper arm. She doesn’t look at him.