Glenda nodded in response and, again, her hand went to her cheekbone, and this time it stayed there. He saw in her face the lines, the concern, the face he had loved and still loved. Together they had striven. Love grew from that, it deepened, but this last year had been too much: the balance had shifted. And his wife held the weight of worry.

‘What happened, Glenda?’

‘We argued. I asked him about his hands, but he wouldn’t tell me. And the thought of not being able to reach him was too much. I shouted at him.’ She took a breath. ‘And then …’

‘And then he hit you?’

‘He didn’t. I told you …’

‘Glenda?’

‘He was drunk, or on drugs, I don’t know. Or maybe his illness, whatever it might be.’

‘Tell me what happened. Everything.’

She did so, describing how their son had pushed past her in his frustration. ‘And that’s when we made contact.’ The phrase made him bristle: making contact doesn’t leave a bruise. More than that was needed, far more.

‘I banged my face against the door jamb.’

As a police officer, he would automatically suspect this, and think it a lie, to cover up some deeper, more painful truth. But this was different: this was his own wife and child, arguing with each other. He would always want to understand, as best he could.

‘Did he apologize?’

‘No. No. He was too far gone for that. He just sort of collapsed into the seat, where you’re sitting now, with his head bowed.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I stood here, and I watched him. I didn’t know what to do. But then he looked at me and said the strangest thing … He asked about our wedding photos.’

‘What?’

‘I know, I know. It’s odd, but that’s what he wanted to see, our wedding album.’

Hobbes tried to process this. ‘Why would he want—’

‘He was very insistent. So I gave him what he wanted, of course. I was curious.’

‘Yes, yes, I can imagine.’

Glenda went to the sideboard and opened a cupboard. She drew out a large book with a padded cover. She handed it to Hobbes. He placed it on the table and flipped through the pages: 1963, the year of their wedding. It was a small church affair and then a reception in a room above their local pub. Glenda’s mum and dad smiling dutifully. And his old friends and colleagues on the force. Their faces … some he remembered, some he couldn’t quite put names to. A couple were dead now: the line of fire, or self-inflicted.

But no one, not one person from his own family.

Glenda said, ‘He sat where you are now, Henry, and he did exactly what you’re doing.’

‘He was looking for a particular image?’

‘Yes. He took it away with him. The next page. You’ll see.’

Hobbes was expecting to see an empty space in the album, but every single slot held a photograph. And then he noticed something strange: one of the pictures wasn’t from their wedding.