The other picture was then surely Michael. His brother had evidently been blessed with all the looks as the picture showed a round-faced boy with ginger hair and small eyes, barely smiling at all.

Other photos showed the boys on beaches or playing in sandpits and smiling at the camera.

A more recent one of Michael made me lean closer for a better look.

He was wearing a suit and shaking the hand of another man. It looked like he was being given some sort of promotion or work-related reward. Still very overweight, he was quite short too. I pictured him thinking he had the right to frighten my wife, and pure revulsion and rage sent me back to the sofa to breathe slowly for a moment or two.

I had to remember I was dealing with a grieving mother here, I told myself. Even if her son had been a nasty piece of work.

Irene came into the room holding a tray of tea things a bit precariously, and I jumped up to help, taking it from her and placing it on the table.

There were two cups, a teapot, a jug of milk, sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits. I distracted myself from the sick feeling inside me by accepting tea gratefully and setting it down on the mat next to me, which had a picture of a poodle on it.

Irene wasn’t looking at me, but staring down at her own cup, which she was holding in her lap. Evidently, neither of us really knew how to start.

‘Mrs Copeland,’ I began, just as she said, ‘So, Elliott.’

We both gave polite little laughs and it felt as though the atmosphere had thawed the tiniest bit.

‘You go first,’ she said.

I paused before speaking.

‘Can I just say before anything else, that I am so deeply sorry about your son?’

She gave a tight little nod and then looked up at me, her eyes blurry now.

‘I just want to understand, you see,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said, nodding with as much sympathy as I could. ‘I want to tell you, on Anya’s behalf, what happened.’

I began to speak, reeling out the carefully constructed story I had been working on since I received the letter.

She didn’t interrupt, merely stared at me as I spoke with a set expression on her face, ignoring the teacup cooling in her lap.

I told her that Anya had briefly gone out with her other son while she was a student, but when they broke up, Michael had wanted to go out with her and wouldn’t accept her gentle rebuffs. Her face tightened at this and she lifted the cup to her lips, then seemed to change her mind, lowering it again with a slightly shaking hand.