I want to thump him, say something smart, but I’m aware the bereaved Thomas Collins is standing in the room with us.

‘How long has she had this?’ I say.

‘I don’t know. I lost interest in her quest a long time ago.’ Pushing his hand through his hair, he moves over to the desk and lifts a few of the papers in his hand, throwing them back down before adding, ‘Katie was challenged by reality. It wasn’t her fault, she had a rough start.’

‘Where did she grow up?’

‘In a hellhole at the edge of Maine. They lived in a trailer for the first few years. When I say they, I mean her mother, her sister and herself. She didn’t know her father, and when her sister was abducted the mother lost all capacity to carry on and drank herself to death. That left Katie with a foster couple, who apparently she was very fond of. She stayed with them until she moved to New York at eighteen. I met her when she was twenty-one. She was working in childcare at the time. She seemed normal to me and I loved her, still love her. It was when we married that the cracks began to appear.’

Thomas is becoming weary talking to us but I have to keep going.

‘Was there more?’

‘More what?’

‘Well, any more pictures of me. Stuff like that.’

Making for the door, he says, ‘Not that I know of. Like I told you, I paid no heed to what she was at over the past few years. Maybe I should have been more helpful.’

I feel under pressure to leave this man alone, to stop stirring his pain. Walking towards the door, I see every picture and note covering the room and wonder, did Katie Collins put those thoughts into Mom’s head the day she visited Oakridge?

‘I suppose her computer would have more information but the cops have that now,’ Thomas says, moving into the hallway. Jeff and I follow. Closing the door behind us, he leads us back downstairs to the hallway.

‘I don’t know what more I can tell you,’ he says, making his way towards the hall door. The baby’s cry echoes down the hallway; the whole atmosphere is surreal and creepy. Pulling the strap of my bag across my shoulder I thank Thomas for his time. I ask him to get in touch if he thinks of anything else he might want me to know and then I give him my number. I also wish him the best of luck in finding out who killed his wife; probably not the best language to use, ‘Good luck finding out who killed your wife.’