I open my mouth to speak, hoping I’m not interrupted this time. ‘I had a call from a detective last night. A DS Matthew Barnes. He sounded nice enough but he said he’s spoken to the manager of the care home, Joy. She advised the police that it would be better for Gran to be interviewed at Elm Brook, a place where she feels safe. And that either you or I should be there too. They deem that she’s able enough mentally to be interviewed because she has some lucid moments and seems to remember a lot from the past so it might be helpful.’

‘I’ll come too,’ she insists.

‘Okay, great. Um . . . how long are you planning on staying? What about work?’

Mum makes a phut noise through her mouth. ‘I’ve taken a week off. I think this would be classed as extenuating circumstances, don’t you?’

‘I . . . well, yes . . . but it’s only a formality. They have to speak to everyone who occupied the property during those twenty years.’

‘I know. But it would be lovely to spend some time with you, honey. I haven’t seen you properly since Christmas.’

And what a nightmare that was, I think. And to be fair it wasn’t Mum’s fault. It was more that moron she calls a boyfriend, who was rude, dismissive and acted like he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably on a beach in Spain, than spending the day in our tiny flat in Croydon. And in the past when I’ve spent time with Mum she always gives me the impression she can’t wait to go back to her hectic life.

Out of the corner of my eye Tom is staring straight ahead with a keep-me-out-of-it expression on his face.

I turn onto the Long Ashton bypass. There’s nothing I can say. And it’s not like I don’t want to spend time with Mum, but at the moment I just don’t have the energy for her . . . well, energy. She never says it, she doesn’t have to, but I know she disapproves that I’ve settled down so early. When Tom and I moved in together a few years ago she tried to talk me out of it. And when I told her we were saving for a deposit to buy a house she warned me about ‘tying myself’ to a mortgage ‘too young’. It’s obvious that having me at sixteen had ruined her teenage years. Something she certainly seems to be making up for now, judging by her Facebook photos.

‘You can stay as long as you want,’ I say, trying to ignore the dragging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Forty minutes later we’ve arrived in Beggars Nook.