‘You seem unsteady. Surely you’ve had a bit too much to drink.’

For a moment, Neil stared at him and Thomas felt as though he was going to strike him, or lose his cool in some other way.

‘I’m on tablets that might appear to make me look that way, but I have not been drinking.’

That was horseshit. Thomas had smelled it when he helped him up. He wasn’t about to get further involved, though, and saw him out, listening to more ranting about lowlifes and what to do with them.

After Neil had gone, he went upstairs and sat for a long time on Ella’s side of their bed. They seemed to have become a splintered family of individuals, with their reason to come together gone. They were floating around, and bumping into one another occasionally, awkward, not knowing what to say. Their family had been slashed apart with two knives in Potton Park.

He flicked on the TV to calm his nerves and was assaulted by visions of crowds of people shouting and chanting on the Beacon Estate. They waved banners: JUSTICE FOR KEIRA! STOP LYING TO US! STOP OUR KIDS DYING!

Thomas watched with his mouth open. It was like watching something from Beirut in the eighties. Could this be twenty minutes down the pretty road winding along Ullswater’s south shore? Surely not? There’d been a mistake. He turned up the volume. It wasn’t all yobs either; there were families down there, women and children, there was dancing, singing, speeches and interviews with so-called experts. It was being televised as a whole goddam social movement and his wife was not mentioned once. It was all about the Bradley girl.

Was it all a horrible coincidence? Was Neil trying to pander to him and deliver something counterfeit for the sake of a quick arrest? In his heart, Ella stirred. She agreed.

‘Oh Neil, what the hell are you doing?’ he said to nobody.

A loud roar went up over the crowd and he watched, transfixed. He went to turn to his wife to tell her about the incredible scenes on their doorstep, but stopped when he realised she wasn’t there. He turned back to the TV.

‘Dad?’

He looked at the door; it was Millie.

‘Darling!’ He held open his arms and she came to him. He kissed her head. It was a thing they’d done for as far back as he could remember: she bent her head and he kissed the top of it. She sat on the bed and looked around the room. It broke his heart.

‘I’ll turn this off,’ he said.

‘No, I want to watch. It’s amazing. Even politicians are waking up and getting involved. We need to stop knife crime. I want to go down there and get Mum on those banners too.’

‘What? You can’t go down there! I forbid it. It’s too dangerous!’