‘But it could be?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks, Evan. That’s very helpful, very helpful indeed. Is there anything you’d like to ask me or tell me, anything you might have remembered since we last talked?’

She’s expecting the standard answer – no – and so is taken aback when he says, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Great. What is it? What would you like to tell us?’

‘I watched a programme,’ he says hesitantly. ‘It was about kids’ TV, old-fashioned stuff from years ago. The characters on this one programme . . . I recognised the names, like they’d pinched them to use as code names or avatars or something. They thought using them was funny. I suppose they did it so we wouldn’t know who they really were, if we ever got out.’

There’s a prickling on the back of Rose’s neck.

‘What was the programme, Evan?’

‘Something about a roundabout. It had this really annoying music.’

She frowns, casting her mind back to childhood.

‘One called himself Mr Rusty, the one with red hair,’ says Evan. ‘There was Dylan and Florence.’

‘The Magic Roundabout,’ says Rose. ‘They called themselves characters from The Magic Roundabout.’

‘I didn’t get it at first,’ says Evan. ‘But they kept saying the names on this programme, and I realised what was going on.’

‘That’s fantastic, Evan,’ says Rose. ‘I’ll pass that on to the team. Thank you.’

He looks down at the table.

‘Will it help you find Liam?’ he asks, quietly. ‘That’s why I told you.’

‘I hope so, sweetheart,’ says Rose. ‘Everything you tell us – like the bridges and the names just now – is a piece in a jigsaw. And the more pieces we have in that jigsaw, the clearer the picture becomes.’

He nods his understanding.

‘There’re some other things.’

Beside her, the woman from Social Services leans forward to speak, but Rose forbids her with her hand.

Evan’s foot begins to tap the floor, and he starts looking around the room, doubtful if he should go on.

‘This place is safe, Evan,’ says Rose. ‘Whatever you say is secret between us, until you say it’s not.’

Evan’s remembering what Jack said to him, about lion-hearted Ferrers men.

He thinks about leaving school that day, for the last time ever, when he was in the final few minutes of normal life, unaware of the fact, so unprepared.

He finds a blur of a memory, him and Stewie crossing the school playing field, sharing a Kit-Kat. No, that wasn’t the right day; the day he’s remembering was warm and sunny and they weren’t wearing their blazers. They were heading home for tea, chicken nuggets or whatever. Home like it used to be, a cosy, welcoming place, when he still believed in the existence of safe havens.