“Sorry,” he said. “I mean, hello.” Discouraging silence. “Hello?”

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, wearily professional. “Could I speak to Mr Donald… ”

“Yes, speaking, speaking.”

Another little pause, and from this martyred silence he realised it must be the girl from the council offices.

“I’m calling in regards to your complaint,” she said.

“Yes.”

“As part of our open communications policy, we provide regular updates to all complainants on the progress of issues… ” She sounded as if she was reading from a script. “… can’t always share all the details due to confidentiality for… ”

His fingers mechanically scrabbled through Alicia’s things, fumbled open her Maths book. Notes and calculations. That rounded cursive script, so reminiscent of Ellen’s. Was handwriting a hereditary trait? Was it Alicia’s oblique way of keeping her mum’s memory alive? Or was it just the way they’d both been taught? She seemed to be doing okay; there were plenty of red ticks, a few corrections. The woman talking in his ear had finished her scripted introduction. He closed the book and made himself concentrate.

“… paying a site visit in the next couple of days to complete a welfare assessment.”

“Sorry, a what?”

“A welfare assessment,” she repeated, patient and chilly. “As a public body, we have a statutory duty to assess the welfare needs of anyone occupying council land to ensure we’re considering all relevant circumstances.”

“What sort of relevant circumstances?”

A tiny sigh. He wished he could make his voice less impatient, less loud.

“For example, if there are children involved.”

“They don’t have any children, they’re brother and sister.”

“Or if either of them has a significant health need.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“And whether they have the ability to access other accommodation.”

“She’s got a house.” (Her husband had wanted her back, he was sure of it. He’d walked out of the restaurant, but Ava had been in control.) “She’s just decided not to live in it.” (But why had she left him? What had he done to make her leave him? He hadn’t looked like the violent type. But then if violent men did look like who they really were, how would they get women to marry them?)

“… for the Welfare Officer to determine, sir.” The honorific annoyed him because it was a technique he recognised. I’m not getting angry, sir. Why are you getting angry? Don’t speak to me like that please, it’s not necessary. Beneath Alicia’s Maths book was a hardbacked, flower-patterned journal. “I’m just keeping you informed as part of the council’s commitment to… ”

“Open communication, yes, you said.” He flicked blankly through the journal. Page after page of loopy handwriting. Strange, in this digital age, to see so many handwritten words. Sometimes she left him post-its on the fridge. We needed more milk so I bought it, now you owe me £1.59! Don’t forget I’m late tom – goin out w da girlz! :) The spelling done on purpose to tease him. Occasionally, when she was younger, Dad, you’re the best! He’d kept those in a drawer somewhere. “So when is this welfare inspection due to take place?”