‘Of course.’ I fold my arms, feeling small and helpless. ‘Jesus, what a mess, Gail. I’m so sorry…’ I search for something appropriate to say. ‘You should be on holiday,’ I start, realising that’s the last thing she’ll want reminding of.

‘I should,’ she says, then lets out a sigh herself and forces a half-smile of support in my direction. ‘There’s nothing like getting thrown into the deep end, Kat.’

I nod, watching her fill her arms with papers and laptop and then leave. In the lone quiet of my office, tears I’ve been fighting back force their way through my resolve. My hope, my self-belief, everything I was trying to rebuild on shaky foundations is fading fast. I’m swamped by the scale of the problem. I’m blinded by the ache in my neck, my head. I pick out two tablets from the aspirin in my drawer, picking up my phone to listen to the new voicemail message as I knock the tablets back with the only drink I can find: cold tea. I gag. I listen and delete Rhys’s first message, asking me to call him back, waiting for the second to kick in. Hospital lunch smells waft through my open door; it’s business as usual out there.

The second message begins: ‘Kat, check her book, check if she took it,’ he says. I can hear the panic in Rhys’s voice, the worry. I look down at her book, lying on my desk, and flick through for maybe the tenth or eleventh time just in case I’ve missed it.

But there’s nothing. The clipping has definitely gone.

Chapter Forty-Two

RHYS

There’s an uneasy quiet in his office, a tiny room at the front of the house. The muffled buzz of daytime telly seeps through the walls from the lounge next door. James’s wife was ironing and complaining about their daughter when I walked through. Something about attitude and mess and how on earth can they get through to her? James didn’t respond, just introduced me as a friend of a friend from Sheffield and asked her to bring us some drinks through. Old school. She asked him if he was okay, said he was looking peaky, but he told her not to fuss.

He’s sitting at his desk now. Beneath books and papers, I can see mahogany and a green leather inset that matches his captain’s chair. Dappled grey files line the walls, with names and dates marker-penned on. A printer sits beneath the window, stacked high with more papers and boxes. He pulls a small black chair over, motioning me to sit down.

‘Sorry for the mess,’ he says, nervously pushing a few papers about without actually moving anything out of the way. ‘I know where everything is, even if nobody else does. It drives my wife crazy.’ He wipes his face, scanning his desk as if searching for something. ‘Can’t say I blame her.’

She comes in with a tray and a pot of tea, two china cups on matching floral saucers beside a bowl full of sugar cubes, with tongs to serve. She looks around for somewhere to put it but James takes it from her, laying it on top of a pad. There’s a tiny plate of biscuits too: a couple of custard creams and a bourbon. ‘I didn’t realise we were having visitors,’ she says to me. ‘I’d have gone to the shops, otherwise.’ She motions to the biscuits as if they require an apology, and then looks to James, perhaps to check there’s nothing else he needs before she leaves. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asks, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he answers, leaning into her touch. She pulls back slightly as if to read his face. There’s an apparent shorthand in their communication, filled with tenderness and longevity. I feel a pang of envy.