He didn’t reply. What could he say? No, it’s nothing to do with the bruises? That was a lie, and Martha would know it. Yes, we think you hurt – or may have hurt – our daughter? There was no need to say that. So he said nothing.

He sat on the couch, a mug of tea on the coffee table. Jo was asleep on his chest, the sound of daytime TV seeming not to bother her. He ran his finger over the bruise on her leg. It circled her thigh, a red ring with a darkening central band.

How the hell had it happened? It wasn’t there yesterday morning, he was sure of that. Almost sure, anyway. It was impossible to be a hundred per cent certain, but he thought he – or Alice – would have noticed. Before she left for the press conference she said she had not seen it, and had no idea where it came from. So it had happened some time later that day, or evening.

Which meant there were a few options.

The first was Martha. Jo had been with her until Alice picked her up and took her to his mum’s house. He imagined Jo crying uncontrollably and Martha trying to calm her, growing more and more agitated as she refused to settle, then squeezing her around the thigh.

And Jo screaming even louder.

No. He couldn’t believe Martha would do that. He knew appearances could be deceptive, but it didn’t fit with anything about her. She was experienced with kids, she was a mum: she wouldn’t deliberately hurt a child.

And she would know that if she did it would be obvious. Whoever did this – presuming they knew they were doing it – would know it would leave a mark, and that he and Alice would see it.

So, for now, he would dismiss Martha. That left his mum, who had taken care of Jo before he picked her up, and Roland.

It could not be his mum.

So it was Roland. It had to be him. If he couldn’t imagine Martha doing it, then there was no way he could picture his mum hurting her granddaughter. It went against everything he knew of her.

But Roland was different. He was not a bad person, all said. He was not malicious or spiteful or nasty.

But he was – could be – misguided. And he wasn’t quite the same as other people. He didn’t think the same way.

He could have been high. How did Tom know he was really clean? He didn’t have a great track record, after all.

Tom could imagine him squeezing Jo’s leg to see if it stopped her crying. He could imagine Roland not knowing it would leave a bruise. He could imagine Roland being drunk or high and not knowing what the hell he was doing. He could imagine that because he’d seen it.