‘Is that a yes? Shall I arrange a meeting with Stuart’s fiancée? She’s the Finance Director at Leeds Bradford Airport, so back in your neck of the woods. She’s also thirty-eight weeks pregnant.’

Bloom smiled. Jameson knew how to press her buttons. ‘Fine. Yes. And let’s meet with Jane again and conduct a full interview.’

‘Consider it done,’ Jameson said and then the line went dead.

Bloom turned Radio 4 back on. She wanted to catch Ian Rankin discussing the death of Inspector Morse creator Colin Dexter. She had loved watching Morse with her father when she was young. They’d competed to work out who’d done it, and then her father would turn lawyer and point out the flaws in the case. He was the reason for her fascination with the criminal mind.

She warmed the broccoli-and-Stilton soup she’d made on Sunday and sliced a loaf of farmhouse brown. Then she settled at the kitchen table just as Barrington Pheloung’s Morse theme began to play. The opening notes made her nostalgic; she wanted to be back on her father’s sofa one last time. She wanted one more evening together.

8

Claire’s conservatory was scattered with discarded soft toys and half-finished jigsaw puzzles. Bloom watched as the two girls ran around the kitchen island, squealing with delight. Claire kept telling them to keep it down. She had one of those fancy machines and was making coffee, frothing milk as she updated Jameson on her husband’s new job. Bloom watched the interaction with fascination. As the only child of two intellectuals she hadn’t grown up around banter or humour at all, so the trading of sarcastic asides and shared chuckles was as intriguing as it was alien.

‘Sorry, Augusta. I’ll take these noise-machines to the park so you can have some peace and quiet,’ said Claire. ‘Seriously, guys, shush a minute. You’re giving me a headache.’

The girls fell silent but continued to run laps of the kitchen.

‘Jane’s not been so good the past day or so,’ Claire said to her brother. As yet, Jane was nowhere to be seen. Claire had shouted up the stairs when Bloom and Jameson had arrived, but that was over fifteen minutes ago.

Jameson carried his cappuccino to the seat opposite Bloom, then placed a mug of tea in front of her. ‘How d’ya mean?’

Claire glanced at the stairs and lowered her voice. ‘Staying up late, lying in late, not eating.’

‘Sounds like you as a teenager.’ Jameson took a sip of coffee. It left a white moustache of milk that he licked away.

‘Yeah, because you were the dream child,’ Claire said to her brother before smiling at Bloom. ‘What d’ya reckon’s going on? Is Lana in trouble or has she just lost her way?’ Claire turned around. ‘Girls!’

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ her daughters sang together.