Marcelo’s jaw tensed, assumedly to trumpet that what he’d done to get Michael a lighter sentence should have earned him some trust of his own, but then he seemed to think better of it.

I didn’t say it, but Marcelo’s age also put him firmly in the suspect category. Now I was looking for someone who’d committed a murder three decades ago and a murder this morning. That left Audrey, Marcelo, Andy and maybe Katherine. Katherine would have been on the young side back then, but she’d had a wild youth; there was no telling what she might have been swept up in. I’d still been wetting the bed, not exactly a prime suspect. Then again, I was assuming that both victims had the same killer – what if the motive was simple revenge? Anger is as much an heirloom as any Rolex. Take age out of it and everyone’s a suspect. Hell, maybe Rebecca herself was all grown up and killing people.

‘We’re forgetting the obvious. In the last twelve hours, more people have told me my father was a good man than the entire rest of my life. What if he wasn’t? What if Dad took and killed Rebecca himself?’

Marcelo leaned forward and gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to know him better. I know it’s not much of a defence, but if you had, you wouldn’t believe he was capable of that. To be honest, I’m surprised Alan was.’

‘So we’re still stuck looking for a link. What’s Alan’s partner’s name?’

‘Clarke. Brian Clarke. Mean anything?’

If you were hoping for a name that brings everything together – Crawford, Henderson or Millot (Andy’s surname, which Katherine took after they married, and which it’s probably time to mention is actually Milton in real life; I told you I changed some of the names for fun and this is one of them) – I’m sorry to disappoint.

‘That name doesn’t link to anyone I’ve met so far. Any kids? Him or Holton? It would be a stretch to think anyone would be out to defend their family’s criminal legacy to such a point they’d want to target our entire family . . .’

‘You’re right. Besides, no kids.’

Marcelo went quiet at that; it seemed like disappointment. A dead end on Alan’s partner. I was struggling to maintain all of the threads and theories now: my head had joined my hand in a metronomic pulse, the pain washing in and out. I didn’t know how long Marcelo and I had been talking, but I was exhausted. I must have closed my eyes for a second that morphed into longer in the real world, because a gentle tapping on my cheek brought me back around, Marcelo’s face leaning over me.