I found the address – a narrow street of terraced houses within yards of the Thames, the DLR rattling overhead. Parking was less easy – another hefty charge, I should have taken the train – but soon I was sorted and ringing her doorbell. It hadn’t occurred to me she might not be in. I knew with such conviction that I had to see her, had to talk to her, that she must be there. And she was.

‘Yes?’ A tall black woman with braids piled into a bun, Kathy was beautiful. She must have been my age, but didn’t look it. For a moment my resolve faltered.

‘Hi. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this but can I ask, do you – did you know a Patrick Sullivan?’

She frowned, and for a terrible moment I thought I’d got the wrong person. Then she said, ‘Do you mean Sean?’

‘You’re married to him.’

‘I was. He – he passed away a few months back.’ I wasn’t about to tell her the whole ridiculous saga. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Her face was impassive – I didn’t think she was that sorry. ‘Are you here about Jack?’

Jack? Who did she mean? ‘No, I . . . I’m here because I think . . .’ Oh, just say it. ‘Kathy, I think he was lying to me. About a lot of things. Maybe everything. And I wondered if you – if you’d spoken to him in the last few years.’ I had to build up to asking: Is he still alive? Do you know where he is?

She sat forward, toying with a mug of tea that had the West Ham logo on it. I had said no to one. Her house was spotless, but I didn’t want to feel I couldn’t leave in a rush if things went badly. ‘It’s Eleanor, yes? Sean – that’s how I knew him – he did nothing but lie. The whole time. Where he was, how old he was, who he was seeing . . . He was a fantasist, I suppose you’d call it. So no, I haven’t spoken to him in years, and I’m glad.’

I closed my eyes briefly. So it wasn’t just me. ‘I see. His parents, are they dead?’