‘When was this?’

‘The night before last. My girlfriend had a relative visiting, so she wasn’t with me. When I woke up in the morning, I was lying on the bed wearing my outdoor clothes. My nightclothes — a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms — were on the floor and there was mud on my shoes.’

‘And you say you took your car?’

‘It was parked differently, not particularly well, and in a different spot in the drive. I spoke to my mother. So as not to scare her, I just said I hoped I didn’t wake her, and she said she heard me come back at around one a.m. I told her I’d popped across to Julia’s flat as she had a leaking washing machine and didn’t know how to turn the water off. I think she believed me.’

His voice had risen slightly, and Laura heard the anxiety in it.

‘At least this time I know where I went,’ he said.

‘Can you explain?’

He drew in a breath. ‘I dreamed that I was at my father’s grave — he’s buried in St Saviour’s Churchyard. In my dream, I felt compelled to take him yellow flowers. I went everywhere looking for them, but no one had any. I finally found some and took them to his grave. I remember crying and asking for his forgiveness — no, begging his forgiveness, although I have no idea why or what for. Anyway, when I realised yesterday that I had been sleepwalking again, I went to the churchyard, and there on his grave was a bunch of yellow flowers. I drove back via the service station on the main road, and they had a bucket of the same yellow chrysanthemums and roses, in the same yellow-and-white cellophane as the bunch on the grave. When I got home, I checked my online banking transactions. I’d been at the service station at midnight and had paid by card.’

‘And you’re sure you have no idea why your father should need to forgive you?’

‘None at all. We had a good relationship. There were no recriminations when he passed away.’

‘Tell me about him. How would you describe your relationship with him? Do you think he was a good father to you?’

He sat back. ‘Oh yes, although he was often absent. He worked a lot. I would have liked to have seen more of him. Still, he always did his best to make those times we were all together happy ones.’

‘And your mother? I know you’re very fond of her. What kind of mum was she when you were a boy?’

He smiled. ‘The best. Always there for me, always supportive — ready to talk, explain, discuss absolutely anything. She was a star.’

‘I imagine she would have liked your father to be around more?’

‘I suppose so, but she never complained. They had an understanding. He worked hard and put food on the table and gave us a comfortable, secure place to live, and she looked after the home, and me.’ His smile widened. ‘To this day, she never complains. She’s a real angel, my mother.’