The only spanner in the works on the domestic front was that Gill had been very down recently. Everyone knew it was hard, staying at home all day with a tiny baby, especially when you’d had a responsible and demanding career. Gill was a barrister, never happier than when she was tearing apart – eviscerating with words – some lowlife like potato-faced Dean. She did it with such aplomb. Patrick hoped she’d soon regain her spark. Sociable and friendly though she naturally was outside of court, the whole NCT cabal thing, gangs of breastfeeding mums taking over coffee shops and attending baby-music classes, just didn’t do it for her. She had tried, but every time came home complaining that if she had to listen to any more chat about mustardy nappies she would scream . . .

Patrick smiled at the thought as he reversed their bronze Toyota Prius – something else that his teenage self would’ve had a word or two about – into the short driveway of their boxy little townhouse in West Molesey. When he was trying to impress people, he told them he lived ‘near Hampton Court’, whereas in truth West Molesey was a mile and a half away, the poor sibling of the much grander East Molesey with its conservation area and plethora of two-million-pound properties. He thought that he had never been so happy to be home. He had even stopped at Tesco Metro and bought a bottle of wine and a bunch of gerbera daisies, Gill’s favourites.

Later, he’d wonder if he’d known it from the second his key turned in the lock, or if he’d imagined that he knew.

What he did instantly pick up on, though, was the silence. They were surely at home, because the buggy was in the hallway, and all the lights were on. Had they just popped round to a neighbour’s? Unlikely. The neighbours in their little close had turned out, disappointingly, to be remarkably unfriendly, and Gill hadn’t made any friends in the immediate vicinity. Usually Radio 2 was blaring away, the TV showing CBeebies with the sound switched off. The tumble dryer churning, kettle boiling, the familiar noises of Gill clattering around in the kitchen, starting dinner for her and Patrick. There were none of these sounds.

‘Hello?’ Patrick called as he stepped inside and closed the front door behind him. ‘Gill?’

Nothing. Patrick frowned. He took off his leather jacket, hung the car keys on the key rack in the cupboard by the door and put the flowers and wine carefully onto the hall floor. They must be out, he thought – then hesitated. Something told him that they weren’t out. Gooseflesh swept up and down his body, even though he had no reason at that stage to fear anything.