I push inside. The space is messy: clothes all over the place, plus his precious trainers higgledy-piggledy on the carpet, like there’s been a hurricane in a Sports Direct. But that’s not a surprise – Dad’s office is chaotic too.

At the far end there are two doors: one to a shower room. I open the cabinet, hunting for another toothbrush or women’s perfume. The only strange thing is a box of dye for beards. Maybe Dad shaved off his facial hair, so he wouldn’t break Mum’s hygiene rules.

I go into the other room now. I think it’s what they call a walk-in wardrobe, but the space is bigger than my bedroom at home and it’s stuffed with clothes. Expensive suits and ironed shirts hang from rails on both walls. There are two freaky things about it. First, it’s tidy. Second, I cannot imagine my dad ever wearing a suit, plus they’re way too big for him.

At the bottom of the third wardrobe, someone’s stacked shelves with blue polo shirts folded into perfect squares. A pull-out unit holds pairs of shiny shoes. Why doesn’t he use this to store his favourite trainers?

Plus, where are the scrappy T-shirts that look like they’ve been round the world on tour, with the bands printed on the front? Where are the khaki shorts with multiple pockets for this tool or that? It’s like my father has never lived here at all . . .

I hear a noise behind me. Dad? Or the real owner of these horrible clothes?

‘What are you doing in here, Casey?’

It’s Mum.

I can’t find the words to tell her what I’m doing, or what I’ve seen. I wish I could run away, get as far as I can from the things that scare me: Bob, my mother’s nerves, my father’s lies, the strange suits in the wardrobe.

‘I was looking for . . .’ I shake my head. ‘See for yourself, Mum. Can you imagine him wearing any of this stuff? And it’s not even his size.’

As she comes in next to me, I smell the faint sweat that always defeats her mineral-salt deodorant. She touches the arms of the suits and opens drawers full of neckties and good-as-new socks.

Another drawer contains only small boxes, and she lifts one out. Inside is a shiny, blingy Rolex, and she removes the slip of paper that’s tucked into the lid. A name has been written in deep-blue ink alongside the date of the guarantee.

‘Who the hell is Vijay Pyne?’

And that’s when it falls into place and I realize everyone has lied to me: my dad, his friends. Even Harrison.

If my dad has lied about this, has anything he’s ever said been true?

Chapter 38: Dan

‘You’ve been staring at that spreadsheet for the last three hours,’ Sue says when she comes in to ask what I want from the sandwich van.

‘It’s the heat, it wrecks my concentration.’

She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘The storm’s meant to break tomorrow. Why don’t you take the afternoon off? You’re owed it. Spend some time with your daughter, before she goes home.’