Susan places the clipping firmly back in the book, closes it tight and drops back out of view, the book clamped to her chest. Whether or not Rhys and I did the right thing by fetching this book, it’s impossible to tell. And if not, how do you even begin to ask about such a story as that cutting, and what her role in it might be?‘Did Gail find you?’ one of the nurses asks. I flip around at the sound of her voice.

‘Pardon?’

‘Gail. She was here earlier looking for you, asked if you could call her as soon as possible.’ The phone in my office rings out and my heart stops. ‘Bets on that’s her,’ says the nurse, and I swallow back a little fear. I jog back towards my office, before turning to ask, ‘Did she seem…’ But the nurse has gone.

I pick up my phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Kat, Gail.’

‘Oh, hi, Gail. Thanks for—’

‘Look, no time now but I just wanted to say I got your message about Susan and we need to talk anyway. I’ve got to go and see someone then I’ll be with you – 3 p.m. Please make sure you’re free to see me.’

‘Yup, okay. Three. See you th—’ But she’s hung up. I write the appointment in my diary, my hands visibly shaking.

There’s a sharp knock at my door and Mark pokes his head around. ‘Hey – oh, you okay?’

‘Sure, why?’ I flick my diary closed and look up, trying to appear light of mood.

‘You look a bit… stressed,’ he says, stepping towards my desk. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink? Something to eat? Chocolate?’ He grins at his final suggestion, like he’s just offered the solution to life’s greatest challenge. ‘There must be biscuits on the desk?’ He gestures outside of my office.

‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’ I raise my hand to stop him. He looks at me, as if trying to work out his next move in a game of chess. I let out a groan and my head drops to my desk. ‘Why is this job so hard?’

He laughs gently. ‘The easy stuff generally isn’t so worthwhile, in my humble experience,’ he says, pulling up a chair to sit down.

‘Humble?’ I raise my head just enough to peer at him through my fringe, but his injured-bird expression suggests I’ve crossed a line we’ve not yet reached.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asks, deftly moving us on. He leans back in the chair, taking on his officious doctor persona. He’s a steepled finger away from therapist territory. If he had a beard, he’d be stroking it now. He’d suit a beard.

‘It’s Susan,’ I say, and he leans forward. ‘Long story, but I ended up at her house last night and it seems our fears about her accident were right. She had all but moved out of her house, erased herself from the very fabric of it. She certainly didn’t appear to have any intention of returning. We picked up a book for her—’