‘There was one other thing. This was a very considerable blow to the head from a fall down the stairs. Do you have particularly steep or long stairs? Might he even have fallen over more than one flight of stairs through gaps if the staircase was wide?’

‘Not at all,’ said Sara. ‘It’s a modest terrace house. Not very high ceilings. Just ordinary stairs.’

‘Oh well. If he’d had a heart attack or stroke and fell without being able to protect himself in any way, that could explain it more. But there’s no sign of that. Possibly he was rushing and tripped and his momentum took him into a hard object.’

‘It must have been the newel post. But he never rushed.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. If I may advise you, don’t put your own life on hold while we’re waiting.’

He stood up, Sara followed suit. ‘Thank you.’

He locked eyes with hers. ‘I won’t let him down.’

It was past 10 p.m.; she wouldn’t yet start the family phone calls and ignite a nocturnal panic. She’d be in trouble if he died during the night, but the surgeon would have said if he thought it at all likely.

She wanted to be alone with him. She was fond of her aunts, uncles and cousins, particularly of Salman, after the honour he and Nusrat had given her – but she’d never confided in them. Nor they in her. She’d wondered sometimes if they saw her as too much of an ‘achiever’, breathing the Everest-high air of the Inns of Court. Or perhaps her adult seriousness towards her religion – and her choice to wear the hijab – had created a distance. The same went for her friends – she had plenty, the majority these days from her work – but never that one close, life-long friend to turn to in distress. It had always been her father – except when it would have agonised him too much. In the end, that’s perhaps who she was – or had become. A woman alone. Currently, the only person she could imagine sharing her despair with was the one who’d understand the meaning and consequence of the moment.

She checked her watch. 10.20 p.m. Would he mind? Particularly after the peremptory way she’d rejected his wish to come with her to Devon. Would she be sending a signal she might regret?

She dialled his number. There was not a second of hesitation. ‘I’m on my way,’ said Patrick.

She was beside her father when he arrived, creeping shyly into the room, silently pulling up a chair. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She briefly rested the hand that was not attached to her father on his arm. ‘I’m OK. Thanks for coming.’