I found myself grinning. For all that he was absolute trouble there was no doubting that Brian was a disarming boy. I could imagine him growing up to be the kind of rogue that always managed to persuade other people to cover for him or take the blame.

I followed him into the kitchen and watched as he built the fire up. He filled the kettle afresh and sawed a loaf into inch-thick slices which he placed under the grill. He poured himself a glass of milk and made no attempt to wipe the moustache away. He sucked his teeth and looked at the table then went into the back garden and came back a moment later with a handful of wildflowers which he placed in a small crystal vase he half-filled with water. I leaned against the wall, watching him work and slowly the kitchen filled with warmth and life. At seven thirty, Flick and John came downstairs, dressed and washed.

‘Sleep OK?’ asked Flick, and her eyes scanned the room as she spoke to me. She took in the vase of flowers and the hot toast and the pot of tea and gave the tiniest of smiles. As she passed Brian I saw her brush his hand with her knuckles: the lightest of touches, two petals bumping together on their fall to earth. Whatever they had argued about, it was now forgiven.

Brian left for school just before eight. He was well-behaved in front of his mother and father but he caught my eye as he was leaving the kitchen and I’m sure there was something devilish in the grin he shot me. I would never know how to read Brian. Nobody would.

‘I thought about it all night,’ said Flick, when there were just the three of us. ‘It was like I could see them. Bodies, full of holes and burning. Why did they choose Fairfax? He was just a nice old man who wanted to write people’s stories down. And the thing with the coins!’ She shuddered. ‘Those poor poor people.’

‘There’s nowt to say you’ll ever know any more than you do,’ said John, lighting a cigarette. His reluctance to continue investigating had died in the face of the words on the singed pages.

‘We can ask,’ I said. ‘That’s all we can do.’

‘If it were Pike …’

‘We’ll cross that bridge later.’

‘You still don’t have anything that isn’t just guesses and imagination. It could just be a story. Fiction, written by Fairfax to keep himself busy. There’s no body.’

I didn’t argue with him. He was talking to the air, not to me or his wife. He wanted his objections heard so that if it turned out we were fools at least he would be able to remind us he had not been taken in.

‘I don’t like lying,’ said Felicity.

‘It’s not lying.’

‘It’s not the truth.’