‘What was it you wanted to talk to him about? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m desperate. I live with him, you see, so it’s not as if he just hasn’t called me. He went out for a walk and didn’t come home.’

‘Shit.’ Alex has gone sheet white. ‘What do you think … I mean, you don’t think he’s done something stupid, do you?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Oh. No, sorry. No reason.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s just a question you ask when people vanish.’

‘Well, I don’t think that at all. I’m just looking for connections. Can you at least tell me why you asked him here?’

He looks like he wants to leave but I pin him to his seat with my eyes. Outside, the street is busy; a sea of taxis, delivery vans and bicycles. People walk with purpose, their minds focused, phones to their ears. Slowly, Alex turns to face me again.

‘I felt like reconnecting. I haven’t seen him in years. There’s nothing else.’

I put my phone on the table between us and show him his email. He reads it and shrugs.

‘This doesn’t look like nothing to me,’ I say.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple rising and falling. ‘I thought he might be able to help with my recovery.’ He pushes the plastic lid from his coffee across the table with the stirring stick.

‘Your recovery from what?’

His eyes narrow as he looks at me. He’s weighing up how much to tell me, how much I already know. Which only makes me wonder how much he plans to leave out.

Then he releases his breath. ‘My sister drowned when our families were on holiday together.’

I don’t know what I expected, but nothing like this.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I thought I was OK, but lately …’ He shrugs but his hands are shaking.

‘What was her name?’

‘Isabel. Izzy. She was thirteen.’ His eyes are full of pain. ‘I’m surprised Nick hasn’t told you about it.’

Me too. This must have been a significant and life-changing event for him. I thought he trusted me. My face heats. I press on to cover my bewilderment.

‘In your email you hint that Nick needs to face up to things. What did you mean by that?’

‘Nothing. To be honest, I was drunk when I wrote it. I only meant myself. My psychiatrist encouraged me to get in touch with him.’

I look at him sceptically. ‘There’s no suggestion that Nick should feel bad about your sister’s death? That’s not what this is about?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘How did you find him?’

‘Through LinkedIn.’

‘And when was this?’

He finally realizes that his trembling hands are giving him away and puts them on his lap. ‘Last Friday.’

‘Prompted by your psychiatrist?’

‘That’s right.’