‘Nearly two.’ Vicky gets out of bed and puts on the pink dressing gown hanging behind the bedroom door. The room is cold; the heating won’t come on for hours. As she opens the door, Paul moves to follow her. No one brings good news at this time of night, and he’s thinking of his mother and father. Or maybe his brother, but wouldn’t they just phone?

Vicky turns on the landing light. As she goes downstairs, the creaking of the treads seems loud. She switches on the hall light and the outside light over the front door, and through the frosted glass she sees two people. She decides to wait for Paul. The strangers at the door don’t knock again, but stand and wait in silence.

Paul pulls on a pair of jeans and yesterday’s T-shirt and finds his glasses. The anxiety for his mum and dad has solidified, and he comes downstairs at a run, not caring if he wakes the boys. He sees the figures at the door and glances at Vicky, who’s standing back so he can be in charge. He picks up the keys from the hall table, then hesitates.

These people might be anyone.

He calls through the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Police.’

Vicky’s hand goes to her mouth, and Paul’s head feels suddenly light. He fits the key to the lock and opens the door. The night air is dank, and the sodium-orange of the streetlights is hazy through fog. There’s a car parked across the driveway, a dark-coloured Peugeot. A man and a woman are standing on the step, both wearing suits as if it were the middle of the day. The man holds up a wallet with a badge.

‘Mr and Mrs Wareham?’ His manner is polite, but he’s not smiling. He closes the wallet in a practised movement, and slips it into his trouser pocket. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Hagen, this is DI Naylor. Can we come in?’

There’s a moment’s silence. Paul fears the worst; for the first time in his life, he knows what people mean by going weak at the knees. Vicky is more composed. Her mother’s in a home, with severe dementia. Her passing would never warrant a visit from the police.

‘What’s this about?’ asks Paul.

‘If we could talk inside,’ says Hagen.

Vicky leads the way to the living room, wishing she’d tidied round before she went to bed. Last night’s wine glasses are on the coffee table, and the basket of ironing she never got to is on a chair. She picks up the basket and carries it out to the hall.