After a while, my sat nav takes me off the main road and up an even less inspiring side road, and I peer around warily. There aren’t any mansions. There aren’t any expensive cars. There’s a crummy-looking gas station and a motel offering rooms for $39. Is this really where Dad’s friend lives?

‘Destination two hundred yards ahead on the right-hand side,’ my sat nav is saying. ‘Destination one hundred yards ahead … You have arrived at your destination.’

I pull up at the side of the road and stare out of the window, my jaw slack with disbelief. The sat nav is right: I’ve arrived at the Shining Hill Home Estate. But it’s not a mansion. It’s a trailer park. There’s a faded sign chained to a galvanized pair of gates and beyond it I can see rows of mobile homes stretching into the distance. I check my piece of paper again: 431 Shining Hill Home Estate. Brent Lewis must live in trailer no. 431.

Part of me wants to phone Dad instantly and tell him how wrong he’s got it about his friend, but I decide to investigate first, so I lock the car and proceed cautiously into the trailer park. No one stops me, and I soon work out where number 431 is from a map on a board. As I make my way down a line of trailers, I get stares from some people sitting outside their mobile homes, and I can’t help glancing around curiously myself. Some of the trailers are really nice-looking and well kept, with plants and pretty curtains, but some are awful. One has broken patio furniture piled high outside it, almost blocking the door. Another has the sound of screaming coming from it. Another has all its windows broken in.

I arrive at no. 431 and approach it. It’s a very plain trailer – not run-down but not very appealing, either. The door is shut and the blinds are down and there are no signs of life. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door and I glance at it as I knock. It says: Notice of Eviction.

I scan the notice, which is all about Mr Brent Lewis of 431 Shining Hill Home Estate and his failure to pay six months’ overdue rent, and the steps which must therefore be taken, signed Herb Leggett, Manager.

‘You a friend of Brent?’ A voice hails me and I turn to see a skinny woman standing on the steps of the trailer opposite. She’s wearing black jeans with her hair thrust into a ponytail and holding a small boy on her hip.

‘Is Brent around?’ I say. ‘I’m not a friend exactly, but I’d like to see him.’

‘You a social worker?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Police?’

‘No!’ I say, shocked. ‘Nothing like that. I’m just … my dad knew him years ago.’

‘You British?’

‘Yes. My dad is too.’

The woman sniffs and nods. ‘Well, you just missed him. He took off yesterday.’