Ruth replies slowly but confidently. She has been in the process for quite a while, after all. ‘Well, I’m pleased because I know he’s been angry with me for a long time and a lot of stuff has come up because of what’s happened, so I’m hoping that this will give him a chance to express that, and that it’s, well, the beginning of … To be honest I’m just glad we’re talking again.’

She stops, and both the women look at Andrew, who now looks as if he’s thinking, forget being a hedgehog, just take me back to Platform Seven.

There is a long silence and then Isobel says, her voice soft, ‘Andrew, sometimes it’s hard to know where to begin.’

She stops again, and waits. This gentle tactic elicits no response from Andrew, whose gaze is fixed on the box of tissues, which he stares at as if he is wondering whether he could lean forward, pull one out and find it had the right answer scrawled on it in biro.

After a decent interval, Isobel tries again. ‘If it’s not too presumptuous of me, I’m going to suggest a place where we might start. Perhaps you could begin by saying why you were so angry when your sister first told you she was going to the police.’

Ruth interrupts, ‘Sorry, Isobel, just to correct you, I think that’s it, I didn’t tell Andrew, it wasn’t me, I mean. I should’ve, of course, but we hadn’t been in contact at all for a couple of years. I was just so angry that he still saw Dad but because we never talked then we couldn’t even talk about that, so when I went to the police, the first time I mean, he had no idea. We weren’t speaking, at all, I mean.’

Andrew finally chips in. ‘You must’ve known they’d come and talk to me, though. First I knew was when they showed up on my doorstep.’

Poor Andrew. I can picture the whole scene. Him in his small square kitchen, about to make a sandwich or some pasta, perhaps; the knock at the door; his surprise when it was two police officers there. Maybe he thought they were coming to ask about the recent spate of burglaries.