The last thing in the document wallet is a photocopy of Alice’s British passport, issued five weeks after the date on the certified registration. It seems they applied for the passport the first instant they could. Maybe Eliza has the actual passport with her, which is why she didn’t bother grabbing this folder of identity documents before she left. It makes me wonder if she is planning to leave the country with Alice.

I check the time on my phone. 11.15. I open my contacts and dial George. ‘It’s Holly,’ I say.

‘You used your real name.’

‘Yes.’ I circle Alice’s photocopied passport photo with my finger. ‘There isn’t much point in not using it now. Are you at work, George?’

‘You didn’t block your number.’

‘Again, would there be any point?’ Carefully, I slide the papers back into the wallet.

‘No,’ he says, after a slight delay.

‘But I didn’t want to.’ I press on the wallet’s snap closure. There is a pleasing click.

‘Good.’

‘I need to access some medical data.’ I turn the wallet upside down and lay it on the passenger seat. ‘Will you help me?’

‘I asked you to call if you needed anything – I meant that. I can meet you at my flat at twelve forty-five.’

A split second after ending the call, my phone rings again. It’s the care home. They say, as gently but firmly as such a thing can be said, that I should come as soon as possible.

I practically fly there, kissing my grandmother’s papery cheek, whispering in her ear that I love her and she’d better wake up soon and start complaining or I will stick her right next to my mother. But even this doesn’t make her respond.

‘She’s been sleepy the past few days.’ Katarina’s voice is hushed. ‘She has taken no food, and very little water. Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’

‘The GP saw her this morning. She seems peaceful. It is, how do you say, a natural process? She is very tired.’

I hold my grandmother’s hand as gently I would an egg, because already it feels as fragile as a shell. ‘Is it another chest infection?’

‘That is what the doctor said, yes. We are giving her things to help with the breathlessness, and for pain. She is comfortable.’

‘Can we just let her sleep, then, as long as she isn’t distressed?’

‘I think that would be best.’

I look up at Katarina. ‘She is going to die soon, isn’t she? She isn’t going to wake up.’

‘I think that is probable.’

Katarina has arranged my grandmother’s white hair on the white pillow, and applied salve to keep her lips from drying out. She has dressed her in the lavender nightgown I bought for Christmas. ‘You are so good, Katarina,’ I say.