Michael thought he was fishing. Romy had made the decision – for which he was pathetically grateful – that the boys would never know from her what their father had done. But Leo was clearly baffled by his mum’s total disappearance from his father’s life.

‘I think she’s been busy, getting on with her own stuff. I’m happy for her, not having to cope with me and my annoying problems any more.’ He smiled and spoke lightly. But Michael felt a leaden sadness.

His more sensitive clients sometimes used to say, when recounting the point at which their lives had taken a turn for the legally unsound, ‘If I could just turn the clock back.’ He’d privately smiled at their triteness. But, really, he understood.

Leo’s phone rang and he watched his son glance at the screen then say, ‘Got to get this, Dad. Be back in a minute.’ He hurried out of the kitchen, leaving Michael wondering about Romy, wondering if she would ever be prepared to let him back into her life – in a limited capacity, obviously – for the boys’ sakes. He thought back to the last time he had seen her and her stark warning that at some point he should tell their sons, or risk being haunted for ever by his crime.

Leo’s intonation, filtering through from the hall, sounded as if he was winding up his call. Is this the moment, Michael wondered, his body shuddering fiercely at the thought, that I do what I promised Romy I would?

Grace Fleetwood. He turned the name over in his mind, where it lodged permanently, now. Such spirit the girl had had, with her youthful prettiness and bright summer dresses. It was just fun to be around her. And she had gravitated towards him – as if he were her special project – always the one to bring him coffee and offer help with even the smallest thing. Which he had really appreciated at the time: he was under intolerable pressure with the Brigham case.

Then that night … He had tried to make sense of it so many times, to understand how he could have done something so terrible. And finally, over the years, he’d come to the conclusion that it seemed intelligible only if he thought of it in terms of a perfect storm.

Grace had accepted the glass of wine he proffered, he remembered, drinking it way too quickly. The room was hot, so appallingly hot, it changed something for him, the stifling air, his overwhelming tiredness making rational thought impossible. She teased him about his work obsession. She gazed at him as if he were divine. He could still see her face as she beckoned him to sit next to her on the sofa. And, for that one crazy, stupid moment, he had believed she wanted him.