‘I… it’s hard to explain all of it but Adam, he… he wrote down this address on a piece of paper and left it for me to find. It was the last thing he wrote.’ I have fished a tissue from my pocket and am dabbing at the tears that won’t stop falling. ‘There’s something here that Adam needed me to see, or someone he wanted me to meet. Please…’

‘It’s against the rules to let anyone in without an appointment,’ she says, but she doesn’t ask me to leave. I can feel her wavering.

‘Look.’ I rummage in my bag for my phone. I hold it up. My screensaver photo is of our wedding day. ‘This is Adam… was Adam. I have to know why he wrote this address. I have to.’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Please. I’ve lost my husband. My son.’

‘Your son?’

Her eyes meet mine. I see pity. Indecision and something else. An understanding. She has lost too; I can sense it.

After a moment, she nods. Pulls the door open wide. ‘I’m Nancy. You’d better come inside.’

Chapter Eighty

Anna

My stomach jitters with nerves. I step into the hallway of 62 St Mary’s Road. I have no idea what I’m walking into. I stamp my feet on the doormat, trying to dislodge the raindrops that cling to my skin, my clothes. I can sense that I am being watched. Nancy must have some idea of why I’m here. When I’m as dry as I can be, I raise my face to see her eyes are still filled with sympathy. For a split second I think about running away, unsure if I’m strong enough to cope with what she might reveal.

‘Come on through.’ Nancy leads the way into a small room to our left and gestures for me to sit on a dark wooden chair. I perch on the edge of the seat, not wanting my wet skirt to dampen the deep green velvet cushion. She pulls out a chair from behind the impossibly shiny desk and sits opposite me. Waiting for her to speak, I lick my dry lips, tasting the furniture polish that lingers in the air.

‘Can I fetch you a hot drink?’ she says. ‘You look freezing.’

I am torn between demanding answers and wanting to delay them.

‘Please.’

Rather than leaving the room, she crosses to the short bookcase under the window where there’s a kettle. She flicks it on. I look around for some sort of indication of what this room, what this building is. There’s nothing other than a gold cross on the wall. Neither of us talk while she spoons coffee into mugs and splashes on boiling water.

‘I can fetch some milk—’