“There’s nothing to say,” said Tara. “Our son is dead.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” said Jude.

“Of course you can’t,” said Tara, almost casually. She turned to her husband. “Have you got it?”

“It’s upstairs.”

He left the kitchen and Jude heard his steps on the stairs. She wondered what “it” was. Tara didn’t offer her tea or coffee, so Jude asked for a glass of water. Her mouth was dry.

Tara filled the glass, gave it to Jude and led her through to the living room. Even in her fog of apprehension, Jude was surprised. She didn’t know exactly what she had expected but not this. Liam had been good at making things and fixing things. He had a feeling for painting and drawing, for color. She could see where he got it from. Everything, the sofa, the chairs, the pictures on the wall, the clay ornaments on shelves, looked homemade or rescued. Some of it was pretty basic, like the wooden boxes hammered together to hold oversized books; other objects were more complicated. How had she not noticed this? Her mind had been on other things.

She sat on the sofa, took a gulp of water and put the glass on a low table that looked as if it had been made from reclaimed floorboards, rough and scuffed and richly grained. Then she saw a large framed photo on the windowsill: Liam, staring out at the room with a tiny smile, almost too good-looking, almost tacky. She looked away, found Tara staring at her, took another gulp of water just for something to do.

Andy came into the room. He was holding a buff-colored A4 envelope. The two of them sat in armchairs on the other side of the table from Jude.

“So you grew up here?” Tara said. It didn’t sound like a friendly question.

“Yes.”

“Did we meet you?” Andy asked. “There were so many of you in those days. In and out of the house. It was hard to keep track.”

Jude wasn’t sure whether she was meant to feel this as a putdown and a humiliation. But she looked at their faces. They were both hollow-eyed with grief. They’d gone through what no parent should ever go through. Still, she felt a creeping anxiety: why had they gone to the trouble of finding her and contacting her? She didn’t want to ask. They would tell her in their own time. She waited.

“You were friends,” said Tara.

Jude wasn’t clear whether this was an assertion or a question. Tara made it sound like an accusation.

“For a time. It was in our last year at school. We spent some time together.”

“And then you both lived in London,” said Andy.

“We’d lost touch by that time. Almost completely.”

“Almost completely?” Andy glanced at Tara.