I could see that Suzie was thinking. ‘So, you come round here and give me a lecture, and then expect me to do you a favour? Is that how it goes?’

I’d anticipated she’d take this line. ‘We were annoyed about the crime scene, but my concern for your safety is genuine.’ I thought about what to say next; hoped that, for all Suzie’s defensiveness, she could see that I had been trying to help her.

‘And now you want me to do you a favour?’ Her face oozed irritation.

I needed to show some vulnerability and now we’d shifted off professional ground, that wasn’t hard. ‘The truth is I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since 1990. I looked online, at the article, and didn’t see him in any of the pictures. If you have any other photos of the funeral, I’d really appreciate seeing them.’

Her gaze searched mine while she processed what I’d told her and decided how to respond.

‘Twenty-nine years is a long time,’ I added, swallowing the emotion I hadn’t realised would surface. ‘If he’s alive, I’d really like to know. But I don’t want to start hoping he is without some evidence.’

Maya, 8.45 p.m.

Maya, 8.45 p.m.

Jasmina and I revived the log fire with some kindling and a couple of fire-lighters, and lit the candles on the hearth. The two of us stood in her spacious lounge, motionless, as the yellowy light from the fire flickered over the photographs which lay like jigsaw pieces on the Persian rug in front of us. Many of them had been in the family for years: faded black and whites, old Polaroids which Dad had taken, school photographs and family photos – all snapshots of our lives. Jaz. Sabs. Mum. Dad. Me. And the faces of friends we no longer saw but hadn’t forgotten.

Next to them, the images from Józef Feldman’s funeral, which Suzie had printed out, changed the story we’d thought we’d known for all those years. They suggested a new reality which was going to take some getting used to.

I stared at each image in turn. ‘If Dad’s alive . . . ’

Jasmina’s husband, Rubel, appeared in the doorway with Dougie close behind, carrying a tray with steaming mugs and a box of Jaffa Cakes on it.

‘Here you are. We made you some tea.’ Rubel padded across the carpet. From his trainers and jogging bottoms, I guessed he’d recently been for a run or was about to go.

‘The Jaffa Cakes were my idea so make sure you leave me some,’ Dougie teased.

I appreciated his attempts at levity. ‘Sorry to turn up uninvited, Rubel.’