Niall had helped them patiently as they made their way at a painfully slow pace from the airport to the taxi and then from the taxi to their flat. He lugged in Mr Sutherland’s Zimmer frame, Mrs Sutherland’s folding wheelchair and an incredible amount of luggage which he had only just been able to fit into the taxi, and then carried each of the almost unbelievably heavy suitcases into the rooms they directed.

‘You are so kind,’ Joan Sutherland had said. ‘There’s really no need.’

‘It’s no problem,’ he said, sweating profusely.

And bless Mr Sutherland. Tipping Niall, he’d pressed a banknote into his palm, thanking him for his help, and told him to go and buy himself a few drinks. Niall, imagining it to be a tenner or maybe a twenty – or perhaps even a fifty – thanked him profusely. But when he checked it as he got into the lift, he saw it was just a solitary five-pound note. Either the sweet man wasn’t quite up to speed with the times or his eyesight was failing. Or maybe he was just a tight-fisted old bastard.

Due to a French air-traffic controllers’ go-slow, which had impacted much of Europe, the flight had been over an hour late. As a result, Niall – cycling the mile back home uphill from the Tuckwell house after returning the taxi – didn’t get home until just after 11.45 p.m. By the time he took off the fuel cost and Mark deducted his cut, he’d be left with about fifty quid for over five hours’ work. Well, fifty-five quid, actually, including the tip.

Throughout the evening he’d repeatedly called Eden, but her mobile remained unavailable. It was the same with the house landline, no reply. Even so, he had little doubt, as he entered the house, that he would find her either in the lounge in front of the telly or upstairs in bed watching some crime series on Netflix or Amazon Prime.

The lounge was in darkness. He could hear no sound upstairs. Maybe she was asleep. If she was cross with him, hopefully she’d sleep it off and be in a better mood in the morning. He climbed the carpeted treads softly, not wanting to wake her, walked the few steps along the landing towards the bedroom door, which was ajar, and pushed it open further. Despite the heavy curtains, thanks to a street light right outside, their bedroom was tinged at night with a faint orange glow.

He saw their bed, neat and tidy, duvet on top, plumped pillows and an array of cushions, just as Eden had left it this morning.

OK, he thought. What game are you playing, babes?

Despite his tiredness, definitely needing a drink now, he went down to their sleek, modern, charcoal-and-white kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and searched around in the drawer for the bottle opener, where it normally lived, cursing when he couldn’t find it. Why couldn’t Eden ever put things away properly? He tried another drawer full of graters and other cookery gubbins, rummaged about, then cried out as he felt a sharp pain.