‘You did so well to research all of that legal stuff,’ I told him. ‘We’ve got a way forward now the police are involved. It’s good for you to have the time with Josh. Let’s keep hold of the other two as tightly as we can. We can’t let Rachel’s state of mind poison any more corners of our family.’ I’d kissed him lightly on the lips, his stubble grazing my cheek. ‘It’s too precious.’

He seemed happy with that: a Friday afternoon on a squash court with our son was never going to be unwelcome, and the level of deals he’d been overseeing recently meant that he could hardly worry about leaving the fort for a single afternoon. It was an ancient mini iPad that I slipped down the soft depths of the plump sofa cushions, one that I hadn’t used in years, but no one other than me needed to know it wasn’t a vital piece of equipment.

I got back there at four, sliding the Golf I used for work into Nick’s empty parking slot. I swept through the office like it was my fiefdom, finding Esther diligently typing behind a monitor in the open-plan area.

‘Hi, Esther,’ I called out. Her face betrayed a tremor of unease before she swiftly rearranged it into a wide grin. The teeth it displayed had a yellowish quality, which made me wonder if she still sneakily puffed on roll-ups the same way that she did as a teenager, the flakes of Golden Virginia getting trapped in the weave of her baggy jumpers. The thought of it was winding, a prickling sensation stinging the back of my eyes. I turned the pain into fuel.

‘Lily!’ she cried. ‘Nick’s not actually here.’

‘I know. I’m the one who gave him the afternoon off!’ I said, my laughter jarring in my ears. ‘I think I left my iPad here and I didn’t want to put him off his game. Will you come and help me check his office?’

Her momentary hesitation flooded me with satisfaction.

‘Of course!’ she said, jumping up and heading down the corridor. It was her who opened the door, and me who shut it firmly behind us. I hoped the click sounded like a gunshot to her. It wasn’t friendly fire.

‘Doesn’t look like it’s on his desk,’ she said, stepping behind it like it was her own. A spurt of bile shot through me, and I decided to cut to the chase.

‘No, I don’t think it is,’ I said, standing stock still and contemplating her. The tight little office shift dress that looked like something aspirational from a 90s car commercial. The court shoes with their sloping, flattened heels, as if it was too big a hassle or expense to replace them or find a cobbler. Her unease was palpable now. I gave it a few more seconds.