Jazz put her notepad and pen in her briefcase. ‘Well, I think that’s all for the moment. Thank you for your help, Mrs Cavendish. I promise I’ll do everything to find out what happened to Charlie.’

‘It’s William who wants answers. I just want my son back.’ Adele stood up. ‘I need a drink,’ she added, almost to herself.

Jazz followed her to the door of the drawing room. ‘Would you mind if I took a look at Charlie’s bedroom? It might help me get a feel for him.’

‘Of course not. It’s this way.’

‘This is a beautiful house, Mrs Cavendish,’ said Jazz as she walked with Adele up the spectacular oak staircase.

‘Thank you. I wanted Charlie to grow up in the country like I did.’ She paused at the top of the stairs and turned to Jazz. ‘We moved here so William could commute. It’s only an hour on the train from Peterborough, but William soon found it a chore and rented a flat in town. He never was one for the country, anyway.’ Adele turned abruptly before Jazz could reply and walked along a corridor.

‘This is Charlie’s room.’ She hovered outside the door. ‘Would you mind if I left you to it? Can’t face seeing all his things just yet.’

‘Of course. And do you have any of the tablets Charlie took to control his epilepsy?’

‘I’ll go and find them for you.’ Adele folded her arms around herself and walked back down the corridor.

Charlie’s room had the usual teenage hallmarks: posters hung askew on the walls, rugby team photos arranged on a unit next to a television and a hi-fi, piles of books and magazines stacked up untidily on a bookshelf.

Jazz walked over to the bed and picked up a furless teddy lying on the pillow.

She’d been on a bereavement counselling course a few years ago and learned that no parent ever got over the loss of a child. Often, couples drifted apart, unable to come together in grief, feeling bereft and isolated. From what she’d seen and heard, Adele Cavendish would take little comfort from her husband.

Jazz leaned nearer to take a look at the photograph on Charlie’s bedside table. Father and son in ski gear at the top of a mountain. They were broad-shouldered and heavy-set, fair in colouring, both with the same blue eyes.

Jazz surveyed the room, looking for anything that might provide a clue to who Charlie had been. She pulled open the desk drawers, leafed through some rugby magazines, opened a couple of letters from friends and, finding nothing of interest, left and walked back down the stairs.

Mrs Cavendish was sitting on the bottom step, nursing a glass.

Jazz sat down beside her.

‘Did you find anything?’

‘No, not really,’ Jazz replied truthfully.

‘Here are the tablets.’ Adele pulled a packet out of her cardigan pocket. ‘You might as well take the lot. He . . . won’t need them any more.’

‘No.’ Jazz took the packet, paused and then asked, ‘Did Charlie have a computer?’