On that night when Ted was taken ill, I had deflected her questions about him, and Mel had noticed that I did so and minded that I withheld something of myself from her. I wanted to offer her something now to make up for that, but there was also more – the thought of confiding in her about my father had become inviting rather than impossible.

At lunchtime today, after I had made the mess of finishing the book and before I set to work again to repair the damage, I picked up the Works telephone and dialled the number of the Public Record Office in Kew. Penny had gone across to the house and closed the yard door behind her. I guessed she was having one of the urgent, muttered conversations with Evelyn that were becoming more and more frequent. Andy and Leo were both out and I was on my own in the bindery.

Once I had pressed the right buttons in response to recorded instructions about how to access records, I was connected to a real person. His voice was surprisingly warm. I explained to this stranger with the attractive voice that I wanted to try to find out about someone who had once served a prison sentence. How could I discover what his crime had been and the circumstances surrounding it?

The Records man cleared his throat. ‘Well, now. Was this person tried in the High Court, or the Crown Court? We only hold High Court records here and those are closed for seventy-five years.’

‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. Maybe Audrey knew that the trial was in the High Court, or maybe she just assumed that all criminal records would be kept in the same place. I gave him the meagre information that I did possess.

‘Hm. It doesn’t sound like the Old Bailey to me. I’m telling you this personally, you understand. You’d have to try the London Metropolitan Archive for Crown Court archives. Or you could go to the British Library and look up the Times index, you could probably find out from that what court this person was tried in.’

This all sounded remote from Ted and his doings. I tried to imagine going through ledgers or, more probably, reams of microfilm in search of his name.

‘But I’ll tell you what I’d do, if I were in your place,’ my new ally said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Where did your friend – I mean, this person – live?’

‘Hendon,’ I told him. Dorset Avenue: Tudorfied semis, suburban gardens, the length and breadth of respectability.

‘You know the date. I’d go to the archives and look up the local newspaper. It would be reported there.’

The Hendon & Finchley Times. Mrs Maloney always read it. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Of course it would.’ I thanked him for his help.

‘All in a day’s work,’ the official said. ‘Good luck. I hope you find what you want.’