His son was wearing an old football shirt. A replica of the last Gillingham shirt Danny had played in, two seasons ago, just before he had come back to Dover Athletic like some sort of returning hero. The first season back he had done OK, but the second season was a frustration of niggling injuries and he’d spent a lot of time on the sidelines. Danny had never dealt well with not playing. It made him feel useless and this time it was mixed up with the realisation that, at nearly thirty-seven, his playing days could soon be coming to an end. He was moody, unapproachable and distant. Even towards his children. He had spent the last few months before Callie’s suicide attempt facing inwards at his own problems without even considering that anyone else might be suffering. Callie had been desperate for someone to talk to, for someone to take notice of her life and what she was going through. He knew that now; the material in that folder had made that clear.

‘Know anyone who can get me one?’ Jamie grinned. His voice snapped Danny’s mind back to the present and he mirrored the grin while ruffling his son’s hair because he knew he hated it.

They sat to eat. Danny in the seat that faced out into the garden, Sharon to his left, Jamie right in front and the family dog Zinedine in his usual position staring directly at Danny from a few paces away on the floor. His look was willing every morsel of food to be diverted. Zinedine was Jamie’s dog really. A French Bulldog, hence he had chosen to name it after a true great of French football. A squat little thing, ears and appetite far too big for the rest of him but with a lovely temperament. Danny wouldn’t admit it, but he missed ‘Zee’ almost as much as he missed his wife and kids.