She would give it an hour; the hospital was no more than a few minutes by Uber, the one stroke of luck. What if they had been in that sleepy Devon village, hours away from anywhere that could cope? How often must Elizabeth Green live on her nerves, awaiting her daughter’s next crisis?

She needed to rid herself of disorderly thoughts. There were fifty minutes to prepare for whatever ordeal lay ahead. She went up to her bedroom and laid out a small travel case on her bed. It smelt fusty. Other smells floated at her. An after-scent of unfamiliar sweat disguised by deodorant, perhaps cologne? She went to open the back window overlooking the garden to breathe the evening’s freshness. It was ajar, the latch in place on the second slot. She was sure she’d closed it before setting off in the morning; she always did unless she knew her father was at home all day. But this was a Thursday, his regular lunchtime club, a fixture in his diary.

Perhaps, in the rush of anticipation as she’d left for the journey to Devon, she had, for once, overlooked it. Unless her father had opened it when he returned after the lunch club. Was that why he was upstairs – and had then fallen on the way down? It didn’t fit. He never entered her room – it was her private space which he honoured.

She packed her computer, the Qur’an and a novel into the case. She imagined that hours of sleepless waiting might lie ahead, and went to her desk to retrieve the charger. It seemed somehow tidier than usual; she must have done a quick sort before she left – she couldn’t remember. She checked the drawers – nothing had changed. Not that there was anything to find – Patrick had the Blackburn file copies and she’d left him with the photograph and tape. She hardly needed to see or hear those again.

The evening sun shafted across the leather inset on which her computer sat. There was something missing; she couldn’t think what. She suddenly realised – the motes of dust on the leather usually illuminated by the rays, or caught by shafts cutting through the casement window, were absent. Perhaps the cleaner had called in today – her fortnightly three-hour visits had become irregular and they’d given her a key to come and go. That could explain the window too. She felt a surge of relief – this was not the time to start imagining things. Though the after-scent was not of a woman. Maybe the cleaner was ill and sent her husband instead. None of it added up. Stop thinking…