Irene’s head was throbbing from her explosive crying episode – funny how she would have felt embarrassed to cry like that in front of strangers a year ago – and she hefted herself up from her chair to get some paracetamol from the cupboard. She didn’t like to take medicines on an empty stomach but she felt as though her throat would simply clamp shut if she tried to eat anything.

As she climbed the stairs to get to the bathroom cabinet, she found herself going over, yet again, how that woman could have been connected to Michael. He had been trying to find out something about Liam, and Liam was the connection.

When she had tried to explain this to the policewomen, it had all come out garbled. She’d noticed them exchange looks again when she said that Michael had apparently been on a mission to discover what had happened to his brother. The English policewoman, or at least the non-Chinese one, had written notes rather frantically when she told them her youngest son hadn’t been seen by his family since 2003.

They asked the same questions that had come up when he first left.

‘Was his passport missing?’ Yes.

‘Were any clothes missing?’ Not really.

‘Has there been any contact with him whatsoever since the last time you saw him?’ Just that postcard. She was able to show them that and they asked if they could take it with them, which seemed a bit strange.

‘Was there any reason to suspect Liam may have been in any trouble?’

Irene had hesitated before she’d said, ‘No.’ They had noticed it, for sure. But she couldn’t bring herself to say that he might have been involved with drugs. Maybe it was because she imagined their expressions might shift; harden. She would go from being the poor bereaved mother of the victim to someone who had criminal elements in the family.

Irene winced and filled the tooth mug with water from the bathroom tap, before swallowing the two painkillers. Each seemed to catch, scratching her throat as it went down.

Despite needing to be alone earlier, she suddenly had a strong desire to tell someone. Quickly dismissing her local friends, kind though they were, her mind settled on Rowan. She had seen the other woman a few times since Michael’s death and rather liked her, despite her odd ways. Yes, she would ask her to come over, especially as Rowan deserved to be told this new information.

Irene made her way down to the telephone in the kitchen and looked for Rowan’s number in the address book she kept near it.

Frustratingly, the call went to voicemail and Irene was about to hang up, when she forced herself to speak. She hated these message things.