Eileen appeared in the dining room door and shuffled down the hall towards him. Even through the small rectangular frame of the letterbox it was clear that she was a broken woman. Gone was the bluster and the attitude, leaving a shell of a person, someone who looked as though all the blood and marrow had been sucked from her bones and replaced by grief and sorrow. Her hair was limp, her face unmade-up and deathly white. Wordlessly, she opened the door and stood aside to admit him, not meeting his eyes.

‘There’s some good news,’ Patrick said gently, steering her into a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Frankie has been found, safe and apparently unharmed. Helen’s with her now, at the hospital. They’re just checking them both over.’ Mentioning the hospital made him feel bad that he wasn’t there at Carmella’s side. But she was a pro. She’d understand. Thank God it was only a flesh wound.

Eileen gave a wan smile.

‘Penny had her, didn’t she,’ she whispered. A statement, not a question.

‘Did you know that already?’ Patrick turned away to fetch them both a glass of water, not wanting Eileen to see how much her answer mattered to him.

‘No. Not until I saw the photo on your phone. Where is Penny now?’

‘When did you last see her, Mrs Philips?’

‘My daughter—’

‘Yes, your ex-daughter-in-law,’ Patrick said, handing her a glass of cold water from the tap which she took, clutching it to her chest with a shaking, liver-spotted hand, but not bringing it to her lips.

‘No. She was my daughter.’

‘So you thought of her as a daughter? You must have been very close, then.’

Oh shit, thought Patrick, so this will be another bereavement for the poor woman. He hadn’t ever warmed to Eileen, but he wouldn’t wish this kind of emotional devastation on anyone, not even Winkler. A sudden noise made them both jump, but it was only a big ginger tom nudging his metal food bowl across the tiled floor in the utility room.

‘No. She was my daughter. My real daughter.’

Something in the tone of Eileen’s voice made Patrick begin to understand.

‘Your . . . birth daughter?’

Eileen’s chin sank to her chest as she nodded, too distraught for tears. She seemed semi-conscious. Patrick’s breath stopped in his chest.

‘But – isn’t she Alice’s mother?’

Another brief nod.

‘And Sean . . . he’s not your son? Is he your son-in-law?’ Patrick wondered how he’d got this all so wrong.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly into the silence, as if it had only just started marking the passage of time. Signifying the collapse of a family.

‘Please explain, Mrs Philips, I’m sorry, I’m really confused. I thought Sean was your actual son. How come your name is Philips too, then?’