‘He had terminal cancer. He was recovering from major surgery. That’s what caused his sudden death. Dr Sweeney said so.’ Ciara is on her feet, dragging her fingers through her hair. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ DI Bradley said gently. ‘However, it’s policy in cases such as these.’

‘What kind of marks?’ I ask. All eyes turn to me. ‘You say Mr Steele found marks, what were they? What does he think may have caused them?’

‘I don’t have that particular information at hand, and it would be remiss of me to say anything more until after the postmortem. Any findings will be for the coroner to determine. We appreciate this must be very distressing for you all,’ DI Bradley says.

Ciara snorts. ‘Well, that’s okay then,’ she snaps. ‘Take my father and carve him up all you want. It’s okay as long as you appreciate how difficult it is for us.’

‘Sweetheart,’ Stella says gently.

Trying to smooth the waters again, I imagine.

Ciara’s face crumples at the softness of her tone and Stella pulls her girlfriend into a hug while DI Bradley and his colleague watch. I’m sure they are used to this. To seeing grief – raw and angry – in front of them. I wonder how many times they’ve had conversations as distressing as this before.

I hear Alex speak next. He is standing in the doorway looking pale and tired and worn out. ‘Is there a suggestion of foul play?’ he asks.

All eyes are on him, Ciara even breaking from her embrace with Stella to watch, as he speaks.

DI Bradley shifts in his seat. ‘As I’ve said, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment at this stage, but we are looking at all lines of inquiry.’

‘So that’s a yes,’ Ciara says. ‘Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous.’

The woman who had been introduced to us as DC Eve King clears her throat. ‘We’ll keep you informed every step of the way. Should a family member wish to come to Belfast with us while the postmortem is carried out, this can be facilitated.’

I’m aware I’m not openly reacting to any of this. That I am sitting here numb, listening. I’m trying to take it all in. Foul play? Really? What must they think of me?

‘For our records, would you mind if we asked a few questions?’ DC King asks.

Ciara throws her hands to the air as if she can’t believe what is happening.

I mutter a quick, ‘We’ll do what we can to help,’ knowing that it wouldn’t really matter if we minded.

She takes a pen and notepad from her pocket. It feels so serious, so formal.

‘Can I ask who was in the house last night with Mr McKee at the time of his death?’

‘We’ve been through this already,’ Ciara says, but there is less fight in her now. She is sagging and sits down on one of the armchairs, her head in her hands.