Claire thinks fleetingly about politeness and preamble but instead she asks, ‘What’s going on?’ She’s hoping Naylor will say, Only a routine visit, or Just keeping in touch, but she doesn’t.

‘Matt’s not here?’ she asks, and Claire shakes her head. ‘What time will he be home?’

Claire half-remembers him saying something about Oxford, but can think of no reason why he should go there. At the time, she didn’t bother to ask.

‘I think he might be away tonight,’ she says. ‘What’s this about?’

‘I’ll get my colleague to ring him,’ says Naylor. She opens the car door for Claire. ‘Shall we go inside?’

Claire puts her handbag on the hall table alongside one of the Sainsbury’s carrier bags – a top-of-their-range fish pie, a bottle of New Zealand white, a packet of Mr Kipling cakes. In the end, the strawberries had seemed too emotionally charged.

‘Shall we have a cup of tea?’ asks Naylor, doing that thing they tend to do, taking over your house, making you feel inept, controlled and taken care of, all at the same time. ‘Put the kettle on, Brad.’

The young man in the tight suit doesn’t balk, but goes immediately to do as he’s told, and Claire is momentarily embarrassed as she remembers the state of the kitchen, the unwashed plates she ought to have put in the dishwasher, the rubbish she should have taken out days ago, the surfaces she should have wiped down.

As Naylor ushers Claire into the lounge, she notices how things have changed. Dust has settled everywhere, and there’s a stillness to the room which is unnerving. The photographs of Evan she remembers are no longer here. In their place are dirty cups and glasses, and a half-eaten sandwich going stale on a plate.

Claire doesn’t apologise for the mess. In the kitchen, the young man is speaking into a phone, and she hears him saying Mr Ferrers, introducing himself as DS Hagen and leaving a lengthy message on Matt’s switched-off phone.

‘If there’s any chance of Matt getting here, I’d like to talk to you both together,’ says Naylor. She takes a seat in an armchair. Claire’s grateful for the sofa, in case she might have to lie down. She’s feeling a touch light-headed, a little shaky in her hands.

Vehemently, she shakes her head.

‘Tell me now,’ she says. ‘You have to tell me now.’

Naylor senses the dread in Claire’s voice, but with the apprehension is the desperate need to know, even though the woman’s expecting the worst of all bad news. How, after all this time, could she be expecting anything else?

In the kitchen, Hagen’s finishing his call.

‘It’s good news,’ says Naylor, knowing that’s only half the story. ‘Evan’s been found.’