Caro had held the letter out for him to see. He’d glimpsed large, curlicued handwriting and an address in SW10. ‘She talks about the crazy times we had when we were all living together in Exeter. God, we were young then. And we did some stupid things. Some were worse than …’

Her words had tailed off there. She had fallen silent and leant back thoughtfully against the cushion behind her. Her gaze had drifted to the window. And the blur of sunlight beyond it.

When, eventually, she’d looked back at him, all she’d said was, ‘Why don’t you make some tea, Nicky? Camomile for me.’

And there was the letter, in his hand again. With address, telephone and email details printed at the top. His eye drifted down across the sentences.

I was really sorry to hear … I know we’ve had our differences … It seems desperately sad to me now that we let political disagreements come between us … I often think about the year we all lived together in Exeter … There are a lot of memories tied up in 18 Barnfield Hill, aren’t there – the good, the bad and the downright incredible? … Can you believe all that madness was more than forty years ago? … Do you ever think about Peter and Alison? … Do you ever wonder if it could have turned out differently? … You don’t have to reply to this letter … I just want you to know you’re in my heart, Caro.

Nick had intended merely to lift Miranda’s contact details from the letter, but after reading it he decided to take it with him. Certainly April didn’t want it. She probably didn’t even know it existed.

Back in his car, after pondering the matter for a few moments, he decided to chance his arm. He rang the mobile number printed on the letter.

Unsurprisingly, it went to voicemail. ‘This is Nick Miller. Caro’s son. We met … well, a long time ago. I’m hoping … Well, I need to talk to you about Martin Caldwell and I know Caro was very touched by the letter you sent her a few months before she died and I thought you’d be able to help me understand what’s going on with Martin. He’s contacted me, you see, and, er … Well, it’d be really great if you could spare me a few minutes on the phone. I’ll hope to hear from you.’

The landline number went unanswered as well. Nick recorded a slightly better organized version of the same message. He wondered if Miranda would decide to ignore him. A sympathetic letter to a dying friend was one thing. Getting involved with the friend’s unknown quantity of a son after her death was quite another. He looked at the heading on the paper. Miranda, Baroness Cushing. That would have been a red rag to a bull where April was concerned.