When they’ve gone out through the door in a clatter of laughter and shoes on wooden floorboards, I set to work, pleased to be able to do this for Léa, to give her what her mother didn’t have time for. I’ll draw on all my years of classroom cut-out skills to make some brilliant decorations for the party, and then I’ll tackle the cake. I put some music on and help myself to a glass of wine from a bottle Michel opened last night. Then I sit down with a pile of coloured paper that Julia bought but never did anything with, fish out my trusty silver-ink pen I for some reason brought with me from the UK, and get to work. Soon I have a pile of neat multicolour bows that I intend to string together across the room. Seeing them, the weight in my head seems to lift a little. I know Léa’s going to be impressed and I can’t wait to see her face when she realises I did this, not Julia.

I tune the radio to a suitably naff technopop station and sing along tunelessly to whatever comes on as I tackle the serious business of making a cake – a chocolate sponge that I intend to make into something vaguely resembling a hedgehog with the help of a packet of chocolate fingers I found in the cupboard. It’s only afterwards, when the cake’s in the oven and I’ve licked the mixing bowl clean and cleaned up the mess I’ve made that I realise I haven’t looked at my phone for a good hour or so. I wash my hands, pick up the phone and see the email symbol.

My pulse quickens. It’s another Daniel Buchs.

Dear Mrs Faulkner. My hiking club forwarded your message to me. I was very surprised to read your email because I did have a sister called Evelyne who died in 1996 and lived in Lausanne for many years. Can you please tell me why you wanted to find her?

I read the email four or five times before I comprehend what’s in front of me. I’ve found him. Evelyne Buchs’ brother has just emailed me. My hands are shaking. I pour another glass of wine and take a gulp. This could be it. The breakthrough I need. I email back straight away, not wanting to let fear creep in and stop me.

I know it’s a long shot, but I’m actually looking for someone else who was in Lausanne at the same time as your sister and my mother – and, I imagine, you. I was hoping your sister might have known something about her. Her name is Brigitte Mela.