When he got home the post had been. There was a single letter lying on the doormat. He picked it up and studied it: it was for him, with a handwritten name and address.

He almost dropped it on the pile of letters that had accumulated over the last few weeks, post comprised of two distinct groups. Firstly, there were the bills and reminders, letters informing him of all the direct debits that had failed: the mortgage, the house insurance, the council tax, the phone bill.

Secondly, there was the junk mail. Lucy and Chris had started that campaign again. Letters from the Samaritans asked him if he was feeling lonely, depressed, suicidal? Worst of all were the letters from charities who raised money for parents who had lost babies; envelopes that bore statistics about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome; letters asking him to make a contribution towards research. Then there were the letters from pro-life groups, whose envelopes always bore pictures of foetuses; letters that spelled out exactly how developed an embryo or foetus was at four weeks, six weeks, eight weeks, twelve.

Jamie threw both types of letter onto a pile and refused to look at them. The thing with the junk mail was that he knew this was mild for Lucy and Chris. It was as if they weren’t really trying very hard. He knew that sooner or later they would try something bigger. He didn’t want to think about what that might be – but whatever it was, he was staying put.

He carried the handwritten letter in and sat down with it on the sofa.. He thought at first that it might be from Kirsty – who he still hadn’t spoken to – but a second glance told him that although it was similar to her writing, this hadn’t come from her. He lit a cigarette then tore the letter open.

It was from Letitia, the previous occupant of the flat. His heartbeat lost its steady rhythm for a moment. He had practically forgotten he had written to her, back when he was trying to find out whether she had lent the Newtons a key to the flat. He started to read:

Dear Jamie