Boys. Loads and loads of images of boys in their early teens. Some standing casually in front of the camera with their arms crossed over their chests and erect dicks proudly on display. Others adopting different positions, bent over, on all fours, or else sucking on dildos or the erect penises of men or boys out of shot.

Mark showed me the search history:

How to meet young boys

Chat sites where young boys meet up

How to groom young boys

Social media for meeting kids

The list went on and on.

‘Could it be someone else?’ I asked. ‘Maybe Jake lent the laptop to someone at work?’

But we could tell by the dates and times that Jake had been home when the searches were made. The majority of them were when he was off work with stress. When he was in his bedroom, me sitting downstairs with no idea what he was up to.

‘Claire,’ Mark hisses as a white van pulls up on the street outside, rap music blaring out of the open window. ‘He’s back.’

Jake laughs as he strolls up the driveway towards us.

‘What are you two up to? His and hers workout?’

‘Jake—’ Mark begins but I interrupt him.

‘Could we have a word?’

Jake draws to a halt outside the garage. ‘In there?’

‘Kira’s in the house,’ I say. ‘And this discussion would be better in private.’

‘So let’s go to the pub then?’ He inclines his head towards his van. ‘Unless … has this got something to do with Billy? Is there news?’

‘No,’ Mark says. ‘This is about you. Close the garage door please.’

Jake does as he’s told then turns back to look at us. His eyes are wide and fearful.

‘Dad borrowed your laptop this morning.’ I point to the computer on the floor between us. ‘He found some images.’

‘Photos,’ Mark says. ‘Of young boys.’

All the colour drains from Jake’s face. The garage door clangs as he stumbles back into it. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘What do we think, Jake?’

‘That I’m a paedophile. And I’m not. I’m really not.’

‘Jake.’ I fight to keep the emotion out of my voice. ‘Those messages you showed me on your phone. Were they between you and a young boy? Were you arranging to meet him?’

‘What messages?’ Mark gives me a sideways look. I asked Jake not to tell him what happened the night of my car-park fugue. And he obviously hasn’t.

‘No.’ Jake holds out his hands. ‘You’ve got it wrong. I was going to meet someone, but not a boy. I was the boy.’

Mark and I exchange a look.