She communicated mostly through sighs or in those whispered words under her breath that he never quite heard. The worst was that sharp intake of air when she said yeah, yeah whenever he invented some novel excuse for sending Aoife less than he promised. He always pictured Jess rubbing her tired eyes in frustration whenever he rang, as if the sound of his voice were enough to induce a headache.

‘Ben, I’ve told you already that you can’t call me out of the blue whenever you remember that you’ve a kid.’

‘What?’ he replied. ‘Jess, that’s not fair. I was worried, that’s all.’

‘Something wrong?’ she asked.

‘No, of course not. Everything’s fine. Listen, would it be okay if I talked to her for a moment?’

‘Ben, every time you call, she starts asking me where her dad is and why he isn’t here, and I’m sick of making excuses for you.’

‘I’m working on that,’ he said. ‘I’ve some money coming—’

‘When?’ she snapped. ‘Amazing how you seemed to produce money out of nowhere when I told you I was pregnant.’

‘That was never going to happen,’ he said, trying to keep his voice down. ‘I thought we got over this.’

‘Yeah, Ben.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s just forget every shitty thing you’ve done so you can start pretending to be Aoife’s dad, like you’ve been telling me for three years now.’

‘We’re not having this conversation again. I just wanted to talk to my daughter. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to go.’

Ben ended the call.

‘Okay,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘I should not have done that.’

He couldn’t have asked her. He refused to. Good fathers are meant to chase the bogeyman from the closet, not invite him in.

Chloe turned expectantly as Ben returned to the desk. He already regretted hanging up on Jess so abruptly. It added more fuel to the pyre that she kept aflame. Chloe hadn’t overheard his conversation. He had made quite sure of that. Ben took care to affect a smile. Aoife was safe and everything was fine. Why should his face say any differently?

‘What did Jess say?’ Chloe asked him.

‘Like I told you,’ Ben replied, ignoring the doctor entirely, ‘there’s no creeper coming after us or Aoife. She’s perfectly safe. She’s watching cartoons.’

‘And what age is your child, Mr French?’ Sparling asked.

‘She’s three.’

‘Three years old,’ he repeated, inferring some significance. ‘I should imagine that your daughter isn’t in the habit of looking out her bedroom window at night. At such a young age she’s probably sound asleep by then.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ben replied.