Jazz squeezed his hand, her own eyes welling with tears. ‘Okay, Dad.’

‘Whatever decision you make will be the right one. I know it will. Don’t be afraid of failure, Jazz. Sometimes things go wrong, that’s part of life. And it’s also part of life to pick yourself up, dust yourself down and move on.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Thanks, Dad.’

‘Jonathan popped in to see me the other night, by the way.’ Tom raised an eyebrow.

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, he asked after you, sent his love and said to give him a buzz when you had a chance.’

‘Dad, please, stop matchmaking. I’m not interested, really.’

‘Jazz . . .’ Tom tutted. ‘One day you’ll realise that the only thing which gets us through is love – be it for family, religion or art. The higher plane, as I like to think of it. Sorry, my darling, but you make a dreadful “island”. You’ll always want love in your life, I guarantee it.’ He grinned. ‘After all, you are my daughter.’

As Tom closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep, Jazz sat next to him and wondered how she could ever learn to cope without him.

David Millar was eating a solitary supper of baked beans on toast in his miserable kitchen. Since he’d been released a week ago, he’d spent a lot of time sleeping. It helped pass the time and meant he wasn’t awake so he couldn’t pour himself a drink.

The past two weeks seemed like a blur, but slowly his head was starting to clear and he was feeling a little better. His sponsor from AA had been round to see him and he was back on the programme. And this time, he was determined to kick it. He’d surrendered, admitted the booze had him beaten. There wasn’t a fight any more, just a realisation that if he wanted to regain control of his life, take tentative steps to seeing it improve, he could never have another drink. Because he couldn’t stop like other people. Because he was an alcoholic.

His mobile rang from the sitting room, and he ran to answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘David, it’s Angie. How . . . how are you?’

‘Oh, better for not being charged with a double murder, thanks.’

‘Yes.’ There was a pause before she said, ‘You know, I never believed you did it. I told Inspector Hunter you couldn’t have done it.’

‘Cheers,’ he replied coldly.

‘And . . . I was wondering, if you were up to it, could Rory come to you on Thursday for the day? It’s half-term, you see, and it’s Julian’s funeral. It would be better if he wasn’t around.’

‘Of course. As long as you trust me.’

‘Are you . . .?’

‘Yes, I’m sober. And you know that I’ve never been drunk in front of Rory on any occasion. I wouldn’t and couldn’t do that to him. Ever.’

There was a silence and Angelina said finally, ‘I’m sorry, David. For everything.’