‘Rowan,’ she said, aware of how wavering and old she sounded to her own ears. ‘It’s Irene, here. Irene Copeland. I wondered if you might be able to drop by … I …’ she tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly desert-dry. ‘I have something I need to talk to you about,’ she said. ‘About, about my Michael. Well, thank you. Goodbye.’

She hadn’t really known how to sign off – never did on these messages – but the prospect of Rowan’s company was welcome. That was, of course, if she got the message and wasn’t off on some whale-singing course or something.

She clearly wasn’t though, because less than fifteen minutes later Irene heard a soft, tentative knock at the front door. The bell had stopped working some time ago and, without Michael, she hadn’t been able to fix it.

Feeling a lightening inside, she got up from the sofa, where she had been trying to watch a little television to take her mind off things, and made her way to the front door. It didn’t look like Rowan standing there – someone taller, slimmer, surely?

When she opened the door, it wasn’t Rowan. It was a young man, tall and skinny, but with muscled arms coming from a faded yellow T-shirt. He had glasses and the sort of red beard people wore when they were dressing up as comedy Scotsmen. He was probably one of those homeless people, who sold sponges and whatnot, but casting her gaze around, Irene couldn’t seem to see anything other than a large rucksack that was resting by his feet.

Frowning, she peered at him and said, ‘Can I help you?’

Then her eyes widened and she let out a sound that was half gasp, half moan. Her hands flew to cup her face for the second time in an afternoon.

‘Mum,’ said the man in a low voice that cracked, giving the word two syllables.

ELLIOTT

I’d bumped into Lee Bennett that morning.

Since I had formally apologized in that difficult, sweaty meeting back in October, I had kept my head down and tried to throw myself into the job with all I had. Two weeks off for Livi’s birth was all I took, just because I was still feeling the last remnants of a cloud over my head from all that happened in the autumn. We’d never known for sure whether it was Copeland who’d tried to run me over or thrown that brick through the window. He was dead. But I felt, deep in my gut, that I had originally accused the wrong man.

I’d somehow managed to avoid Bennett in the playground at the start and end of the day, averting my gaze if we happened to be within ten metres of each other.