He looked up at her, suddenly feeling it again, believing in their marriage, and simultaneously feeling that cold, bitter chill that told him it was over.

The results of their search were piling up on the floor around the walls. They had emptied Avigail’s desk, and now they were emptying Avigail’s house, from attic to cupboard and drawers in their search for anything they could use. While Eva’s research was ordered and filed and told them nothing new, Avigail’s was chaotic, everywhere, in every part of her life; the randomness itself seemed to hold a potential clue. They couldn’t stop until they had searched every possible hiding place, and neither of them needed to say so to the other. Eva worked silently, and Piotr respected that need for silence.

Bags were filled for charity, other boxes for the dump – Eva was brutal, even with this – while papers, notebooks, and letters were piled in the living room. She pushed her sleeves up to the elbows, and he knew he was lucky to be allowed to stay and observe, let alone help. He wasn’t needed, but it’s hard, going through the remnants of a life. He hoped, perhaps selfishly, that having him there was a kind of support.

It felt strange to Piotr that Avigail wasn’t still around. He and Eva had broken up two years before she’d died, and so not seeing her – not thinking about her, if he was honest – was something he’d become used to. She had been absent from his life before she became absent from the world. And she’d never liked him anyway.

He’d liked her, though. That was his first thought when he heard about her death. There was an email from Eva, and a brief report online. He’d tried phoning. She hadn’t answered. Why would she? But he wished he had told Avigail, just once, how much he liked her.

After his ill-judged exposé, Avigail’s reaction was unexpected, especially given that he was meeting her again as the new boyfriend of her daughter. She’d looked at him, standing there on the doorstop – he’d gone to some trouble, in his new suit, his brushed hair, his beard trimmed and almost neat – and as he’d waited, his hand outstretched in the formal offer of a shake, she’d laughed. Not a curt laugh, quite the opposite. A big, full-bodied, fully enjoyed laugh. Then she’d grabbed his hand and used it to lead him into the front room, instead of accepting the handshake.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Piotr,’ she’d said, the laugh still playing about her lips. ‘I have not the faintest idea what my daughter is thinking.’

‘Nor do I, to be honest.’

‘Precisely!’ she’d replied, taking wine from the rack, turning over her shoulder to glance at him with the bottle of red held high.