‘Shame. There’s another nice one just up the road in Gomersal. The Wheatsheaf. I go there from time to time.’

‘Well, as long as it’s somewhere discreet. Rules are always open to interpretation, aren’t they?’

‘You know what? Would you mind dropping me at Tesco’s instead? I need to get a few things. And I don’t think this is a good time, is it? Look, we can go down here.’

They turned left, the road taking them beneath the course of the old railway, down along an old underpass, the very spot where Craig Shaw used to park to do business, where it was assumed he’d been murdered.

Joe came to a brief stop at the darkest point, the grey light of the early evening sky visible in odd snatches between the massive iron girders of the structure above them, caked in decades of paint and rust.

‘The bereavement group, up at the library?’ he asked.

She attempted a smile. But it looked painful, all her teeth on show. There were tears in the corner of her eyes.

‘How on earth did you know?’ she asked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a ball of screwed up paper. ‘Anyway, I’ve just taken the poster down. I’ve made a decision.’

‘And what was that?’

‘I’ve run that group for five years. But I’ve decided to pack it in. Nothing really works, Joe. You can’t talk your way through it. I realized that last night in the pub.’

‘I’m sure it does help. And the other people in the group, I’m sure they are helped by it. By you.’

‘I’ve done all I can. It’s too late.’

She wound down the window and tossed it out.

‘Apologies for littering. The supermarket’s just up here, sharp left. I hope we don’t get photographed!’

She laughed, but it didn’t sound like a joke.

They parked up near the back. Before them was a large expanse of tarmac, nine or ten long rows marked out for vehicles, about half of them filled. Tesco was doing brisk trade even now, before the rush hour.

‘I had a son,’ she said, watching him as she spoke. ‘He died.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

She forced the tiniest of smiles.

‘The woman you mentioned yesterday, with the dead son? She’ll live with it forever. It doesn’t go away.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘No, you can’t. You can’t imagine it.’

‘I…’

‘You don’t have to say anything, Joe. It happens. Life. It just happens. Then you get on with it.’

‘How the hell do you cope with something like that?’

‘In practical terms? I became a teacher. Tried to help people. The other stuff, too. Job club, bereavement group. In the end, though, it doesn’t work.’

‘You sure about that?’

She paused, considered what he’d said. And it wasn’t with fondness.