There was no response to her first press of the doorbell, but she saw movement from the corner of her eye at the bay window to her left. Someone was home, alright. They were just avoiding answering the door.

Hot indignation now helpfully replaced her jitters and Irene rang the bell then rapped hard on the painted red wood with her knuckles.

Still nothing.

Almost before she knew she was going to do it, Irene lowered her face to the level of the letterbox and flipped it up with a finger.

‘Can you help me?’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Anastasia?’ Then, ‘I know someone is in there!’ Her own voice sounded shrill and elderly to her ears and suddenly she felt so tired and sad she feared she would just sit down on the pavement and never get up again. She rapped once more on the door and pressed the doorbell and then the door flew open so violently she almost fell inside and onto the young woman on the threshold.

Irene was so startled that she simply stared for a moment. The girl was tall, slim, and very pretty, with thick red hair piled on top of her head. It was the same sort of colour as Liam’s, oddly. The eyes too – that unusual caramel-brown – currently glaring from a pale, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a bit red round the rims. She was wearing what looked like a man’s shirt over a pair of black leggings and her feet were bare, toes varnished with blue polish.

When she spoke her voice came out almost as a growl.

‘Yes? What do you want?’

‘I’m … I’m …’ Irene’s heart was beating uncomfortably hard and she felt a little dizzy. Why hadn’t she practised what she would say?

‘I’m Michael’s mother,’ was all she managed to blurt out. The effect of these words on the other woman was shocking. Her face seemed to blanch right in front of Irene and her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then licked her lips. Then she spoke again.

‘Who?’ Her eyes were changing; from angry to something else now. Cold. As though she had brought down shutters over her face.

‘I can tell you know his name!’ Irene felt her voice crack, but she needed to be in control just for a little while longer. ‘Please?’ she said. ‘He’s dead and there was some sort of report in his room with your name and address on it.’

The woman, Anastasia surely, was fiddling with her long hair, twisting it around her finger and almost yanking it in a way that looked uncomfortable. Irene suddenly felt a dizzying surge of adrenaline that made her want to take a step back. She had the oddest feeling of wanting to protect herself. Her instinct was to flee. But she knew she had to stay strong.