After Dad and Doyle to and fro over whether this is necessary and what point it serves, it’s clear that Doyle is going to search the house anyway. So it’s best if we at least watch while he does. Dad leads the two cops to his bedroom, where they rifle through the bedside drawers, the dressing table. Doyle tells Roberts to check under the bed.

They search the bathroom drawers after this. ‘You want to know what brand of shampoo she used?’ Dad asks. ‘That’ll help your investigation, will it?’

They don’t answer. Doyle heads back to the kitchen, muttering to Roberts then more loudly directing him to open drawers, search behind tins, reach into the back of cupboards. Whatever they’re looking for, they don’t find it.

When they’re done they offer cursory nods, the cop sign-off – ‘we’ll be in touch soon’ – and leave. After the door closes, Dad goes to his room.

The same morning the cops visit, there’s another knock on the door. Abby’s still out; Dad and I arrive at the door simultaneously though we’ve come from different parts of the house. A plump woman who’s maybe a handful of years younger than Dad stands on the threshold. Dad introduces her as Donna McCarthy.

Donna puts a warm hand on my cheek and gives me a gentle pat. ‘You’re the spitting image of your father.’ She turns to Dad and tilts her head to one side. ‘John. Come here.’ She folds her fleshy arms around him and then pushes him away so she can examine his face. ‘How are you holding up? You look peaky.’ She turns to me. ‘Have you been taking care of him?’

I don’t recall either of us inviting her in, and I’m not sure how she’s managed to carry in a wicker basket full of food without me noticing while also steering Dad to the couch, and yet, here we are.

‘Now.’ She lifts her basket onto the bench. ‘Skye’s going north to her family, which is as it should be.’

‘How could you know that?’ Dad says. ‘I only just heard it myself.’

‘Never mind. The poor family, my heart goes out. Can you imagine?’ She makes a disapproving face at her own question. ‘But we need to say goodbye. She was special to me, John. She was a lovely girl. Milk?’

‘Black, with one.’

‘Oh, I know that.’

Donna seems like a woman who’s inclined to cheerfulness but she goes about her business with quiet gravitas. I can see she’s trying to behave in what she thinks is an appropriately sedate manner. Dad notices this, too.

‘Go on, say it.’

‘Say what, John?’ She wipes the chopping board energetically.

‘Donna, you don’t have to stop being yourself. I say, black with one. You say, like my men. It’s what you say.’

She tilts her face down, adding another chin. ‘I don’t think it’s suitable to be making jokes at a time like this, John.’

‘No, you’re probably right.’