Mum jumps up from the sofa. She goes to the window. Her feet are bare and tanned and she keeps hopping from one to the other. Her energy is almost visible, like the glow the kids had in the old Ready Brek adverts that Mum made me watch once on YouTube. ‘I feel like I need to be doing something more to find Daphne.’ She touches the chunky necklace at her throat, threading the aqua beads through her fingers for a few moments, then turns to me, her eyes flashing. ‘I’m going to London.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I’ll go and visit your dad. I haven’t seen him since your graduation. It would be nice to catch up.’

That’s the weird thing about my divorced parents. They still like each other. They spent the whole time at my graduation drinking and laughing with one another, and when I told Tara they were actually divorced she’d been shocked. I’ve often wondered if they’d met later in life, instead of as teenagers, would they have stayed together?

‘Dad might not be able to find anything on Alan Hartall,’ I say. ‘The most he’ll have is an address and you can get that over the phone.’

‘I know, but it will give me something to do. Get out from under your feet. You’ve got work to do and I’m just hanging around here, not being useful. I’ll catch the train tomorrow. Would you mind giving me a lift to the station?’ Before I can answer she’s whipped out her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘There’s a train tomorrow to Paddington at . . .’ she peers at the screen more closely ‘. . . nine twenty-eight a.m.’ She looks up. ‘Not too early for you?’

Mum still assumes I haven’t progressed from my teenage self, lounging around in bed until noon. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I think it’s a mad idea but it will get her out of the house for the day and give me some space to finish the book design for my boss, Caitlyn. She wasn’t happy with my last mock-up. I’m worried I’m losing my touch. I’ve been too distracted by the move, the baby, Gran, my mum. And, of course, the small matter of the dead bodies.

‘Stop chewing your lip,’ she says, as she breezes past me. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Mum is already dressed and applying her makeup at the kitchen table when I get up the next morning. Tom was out of the house by 6 a.m. It’s a long commute for him every day and I think the novelty of it is starting to wear off. He was late home last night due to train delays, and fell into bed, exhausted, wrapping his arms around my stomach and conking out more or less straight away.