‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. Sit!’

We’re being unnatural with each other. Ultra-polite but I do as she says.

There’s an awkward silence and I’m thankful when the door opens and Joy escorts Gran into the room. The sight of her brings tears to my eyes: she looks so frightened, like a shy little girl. I want to wrap her in my arms and take her away from all this. She seems thinner in her pink knitted jumper and pleated skirt, and I’m worried she’s not eating enough. I notice she has on a gold necklace and matching earrings that I recognize and I wonder if one of the carers put them on for her this morning to make her look nice. She sits next to me, blinking rapidly like a baby bird.

I reach over and take her hand. ‘Gran . . .’

‘Who are you?’ she says, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the heart.

‘It’s me, Saffy,’ I say, trying not to cry.

Before she can respond Mum has crouched down by her side. ‘Mum,’ she says. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. The police just want to ask you a few more questions.’

‘Why?’ Gran asks, then turns to me, bewildered, but there is recognition in her eyes. I squeeze her hand.

‘It’s okay, Gran,’ I say reassuringly. Mum stands up and hovers behind me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I wish there was a chair for her. Why didn’t Joy bring one?

DS Barnes has his sleeves rolled up. It’s not as hot as last time but even so there is a sheen to his forehead.

‘Hi, Rose,’ he says. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Like your daughter said, we just want to ask a few questions. Is that okay?’

‘I suppose,’ she says, folding her hands across her stomach. Joy returns with an extra chair and Mum sits in it.

DS Barnes looks vaguely irritated by all the disruption. When Joy has left the room he continues: ‘Rose, does the name Neil Lewisham mean anything to you?’

Gran turns to me and I smile encouragingly.

‘I don’t think so,’ says Gran.

DS Barnes pushes a photograph across the wooden table towards us. Gran stares down at it, her hand still in mine, fine-boned and delicate. I lean forward to get a better view. A man with short fair hair stares out at us. He’s plain, ordinary. There is nothing about him that would make him stand out. He has on a long black overcoat; one hand is thrust into a pocket and the other is holding a cigarette by his side. ‘This is the man who was found dead in your old house, Rose,’ he says gravely. ‘We think he died in 1980, while you were living there.’

Gran’s eyes are wide with fright.