‘Oh,’ Ali said, her first slim hope dashed. A hospital porter – she could see that; it made sense. Peter’s loving, giving, caring nature. His lack of qualifications. His humility.

‘Well,’ said Dan. ‘How do you know he doesn’t have a sister?’

‘He hasn’t got anybody,’ Mr Higgins replied. ‘He told me he’s on his own.’

Ali and Dan exchanged a look. Her heart began to beat a little faster, and she told herself to be calm, be realistic. ‘Where does he live?’ she asked.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Oh, please, why not?’ Ali asked, a little desperate, and too long absent from Sheffield to understand his meaning.

‘Because I don’t know, lass. I’ve never asked.’

His chest rose painfully with each laboured breath, and Mr Rashid’s quiet wife brought out a chair and offered it, tentatively, giving McCulloch a very wide berth. Mr Higgins dropped heavily on to the seat. ‘Thank you, love,’ he said. ‘I’m right out of puff.’ Ali gave him a regretful backward glance as they left. She felt somehow responsible for his discomfort.

‘Just suppose he’s here?’ Ali said.

They were in the unforgiving glare of the hospital’s reception area, waiting for a member of staff to find time for their trivial enquiry. Disinfectant masking sickness: the smell of hospitals was the same the world over, she thought, and this made her think of Michael. She shivered imperceptibly, and reached for Dan’s hand, and he took hold of hers and squeezed it.

‘If Peter’s here,’ he said, ‘then we’ll be forever grateful that poor old Mr Higgins has asthma that’s bad enough to need hospital treatment.’

He caught the eye of the woman Ali had spoken to when they first arrived. She’d been answering the phone and signing forms and giving directions to patients and visitors, whose labyrinthine course through this vast building was just another ordeal on top of whatever it was that had brought them here in the first place. Now, she looked at Dan and remembered she’d forgotten all about them. She made no apology, however, just said, ‘Now then, who was it you were after?’

‘Peter Connor,’ Ali said. ‘He’s a porter here, and I just wondered …’

‘Hang on, love, I’ll check.’

She picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. Ali felt her heart going at it again, extraordinary how it pounded, just because this kind stranger was asking a colleague if Peter Connor was on the rota today. In all honesty, at this moment Ali didn’t know what outcome she wished for.

‘Right you are, Angie. Thanks, love.’ She looked at Ali. ‘Night shift,’ she said. ‘Eight while eight.’