Irene wondered, now, as she hoovered every inch of the house, what on earth she had been thinking in sending that letter. Did she really want to meet this young woman? There had been something so cold in her eyes when Irene had tried to speak to her on the doorstep. There was no sympathy at all for the terrible thing that had happened to Michael.

Irene turned off the Hoover and carefully carried it down the stairs, breathing heavily as she did so. She needed to eat something, before this meeting. It wouldn’t do to go all wobbly when she was trying to be strong.

An hour later, Irene was sitting on her sofa, her hands twisted together in an attempt to stop them from shaking. They felt damp, and she wiped them on her skirt – one of her best. It felt important that she presented a smart face to this woman, however she had been connected to her sons.

Irene picked up the photos she had found in Michael’s possessions again, grateful that she had the idea of getting them photocopied to send with that letter. She would never have seen them again otherwise, she was sure of that.

Her chest cramped as she stared down at her son. Liam seemed to gleam with life. Didn’t they say that mothers knew when their child died?

Irene couldn’t believe, now, that she had managed to get through all these years in such a deluded state. Liam must surely be dead too? What on earth would make him stay away from her for so long?

She thought about crime dramas she had watched on television, where witnesses to crimes had been given new identities. They weren’t allowed to get in touch with their families, were they?

A well of pain inside threatened to take her breath away and then the sharp ring of the doorbell pulled her back to herself. She stood up and smoothed down her skirt before forcing her feet to move towards the front door.

But when she opened it, the person on the doorstep was not who she expected to see at all. For a moment she was confused, thinking this was perhaps a delivery of some kind, but the tall, slim bearded man was familiar to her and with an exhaled, ‘Oh,’ she realized, with disappointment, who it was.

ELLIOTT

For a horrible moment, I thought she was frightened of me, and it struck me, rather belatedly, how this might look, me turning up instead of Anya.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Mrs Copeland,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid Anya had to back out of coming because she isn’t well today, so I hope you’ll forgive me for turning up instead. She really wanted me to talk to you. I’m Elliott, her husband.’

Two lies, right there. The first of several I had planned for this strange morning.