‘Jeremy? It can’t be.’ Katherine was peering at him like he’d come home from a desert island. Then she turned to Audrey. ‘How could you not know?’

‘The Sabres took him, Katherine. But there was no ransom – they wanted the photographs. The ones Ernest has been talking about. I didn’t know about the watch or anything . . . and Jeremy, if that is you, I tried – I tried to find them. They said they had to be sure I wasn’t hiding them. So they told me they had to’—she choked on the word—‘to be sure I was telling the truth.’ Marcelo moved towards Crawford/Cunningham (what’s in a name?), but Audrey took his hand. I saw her give it a squeeze and he let his arm trail behind him, like a pit bull restrained by a leash. ‘I couldn’t tell the police, not only because Alan was a policeman at the time, but also because I was worried they’d come back for Michael and Ernest. Our family had lost so much over these silly photos, I just wanted it finished. So I pretended. If it’s really you, Jeremy, I’m sorry. Are you sure, Ernest? Are you really sure?’

‘Michael told me Alan had tried to contact me first,’ I said. ‘I’d told Michael it wasn’t true, convinced it was a lie Alan had spun to build trust with him. But then I thought about it. Alan had said he’d contacted Michael’s brother. You didn’t know you were adopted until he approached you, did you, Jeremy?’

Jeremy swallowed hard. Chewed his lip. Said nothing.