Again, Healy and I looked at each other across the table, but this time neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to. We recognized the pain in Freda’s voice, the fear of what was coming, of going to her grave without doing all that she needed to do. I’d seen the same look in my wife’s face before her death; Healy had seen the echoes in his own reflection in the months after his daughter had been murdered. The fights they’d had that he wished he could take back. The things he’d said that he’d have given his life to erase.

Death was about love, and about grief.

But more often it was about regret.

‘Patrick?’

Our attention returned to the Dictaphone.

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, his words delivered in a rush of breath, a sigh which seemed to, once again, impart how he felt towards Freda. ‘Like I say, I hopefully might get somewhere with this call I’m going to make tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Okay. I appreciate it.’

‘I just want to do the best job I can for you …’

‘I know. And you are.’

A pause. ‘Why don’t you just tell him?’

There was no response from Freda.

‘You should tell him,’ Patrick said again, more forcefully, but without any sharpness to his tone. ‘You’re sick, and before … you know, before you …’ His words fell away. He couldn’t bring himself to say die. ‘Before it happens, you want to find out what happened to Beatrix. Everyone will understand that, Freda. Everyone. You told us about the illness, and you saw how we all rallied around, and John loves you more than anyone. Beatrix was your daughter, you were her mum. He’ll get it.’

‘I can’t,’ Freda replied.

‘John’s your husband. He’ll understand. He will.’

‘No.’ It was said with strength this time. ‘He can barely even cope with the fact that the cancer’s back, let alone it being terminal. I mean, I can’t look him in the face most of the time these days because it just sets us both off. So, me running around, destroying any hope of prolonging my life as I spend my time trying to find out what happened to the daughter I gave away …’ I heard movement again: the creak of a seat. ‘No. I’m not telling John.’

‘Does he even know about Beatrix?’

‘No. When I saw her photograph in the newspapers, that birthmark on her face, when they said she disappeared the day before her birthday, I knew it was her. I knew it. And that was when I should have sat John down and told him. He would have accepted it, I know he would. He’s such a good man. But I just …’ A sniff. ‘I should have told him from the start, I know that, but I was just so ashamed.’

‘You have nothing to feel ashamed about.’