‘Ciao,’ the policeman says. ‘You may be aware – maybe? We are looking for William McGovern.’ Joe takes in his lilting Italian tones. ‘We are interviewing everyone in the vicinity to see if they have any useful information.’ His cool, dark eyes scan across Joe’s face. Cathy arrives behind Joe, stopping on the penultimate step, waiting. Frannie has stayed upstairs.

Joe tries not to let any tension set in in his body, uncurls his hands from fists, drops his shoulders. ‘I’m Mario,’ the policeman adds. ‘At the station,’ he says, ‘if I may have a word or two with you, first?’ He addresses Joe.

‘Right,’ Joe says. ‘I’ll come now, if I can help.’

The Carabinieri holds the door open for him, leaving Cathy behind. ‘You come after,’ Mario says over his shoulder. She nods. Her face is so pale. None of them has slept yet. But it is almost finished, Joe is hoping, as he gets into the police officer’s car, in the back seat, like the criminal he is. They’ve disposed of the body, and they will be interviewed by the police, and then, in a few hours, that will be that. It has to be that way. He has to tell himself it will be that way.

21.

Now

Jason’s Office, early March, 5.00 p.m.

‘All right now, cycling past the crime, why don’t you tell me about the steps you took to mitigate things.’

‘I know you mean the cashpoint bungle,’ I say immediately. ‘The thing is – none of us wanted to be doing that stuff. Joe just – he felt he had to, I guess. I now know.’

‘Yes, I see.’ I can hear the ball bearing in Jason’s pen moving up and down across his pad.

‘Committing other crimes. After – after the first,’ I stammer.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jason says. ‘This is all stuff we know, remember.’ He checks his watch discreetly. Almost the end of the day. Almost ten to six. ‘I just need to finalize this.’ He looks at the window. We’re into early March and it’s getting lighter earlier in each session. ‘We need to explain your thinking.’

I laugh, a small, sardonic laugh. ‘Er, none?’

He throws me a wry smile. ‘Right?’ If only he could meet my family, to ask them too. But I haven’t spoken to them for over a year, so he surely can’t.

‘Where do you go, after these sessions?’ I say suddenly.

‘Everyone asks eventually.’ Something about Jason’s body language is childlike, his leg kicking the underneath of his chair just once. It reminds me immediately of Paul.

I am assaulted by another memory. A beach day last December. Paul wanted to get in the water, even though I kept showing him how cold it was, dipped his little fat hands in it repeatedly, but all he did was wrinkle up his nose and laugh.

In the end, I took off my shoes and socks, wet sand yielding underfoot like chocolate puddings. Then I rolled my jeans up and paddled in, holding him while he shouted with joy, up there in the warmer air. It was a day much like today. March looks pretty much like December in Birmingham, like the world stops turning for three months and it just rains and rains.