‘I’m not interested in the boat fire,’ Silas says, worried that he might be overplaying his hand. He’s learnt to keep back how much he knows, at least when interviewing suspects. But this is his own son.

‘You’re a cop,’ Conor says. ‘Of course you’re interested in the boat. That’s why you’re here – in the village.’

‘I came here today because someone saw you – recognised you from the missing person posters I’ve been putting up everywhere.’

‘You’re lying. I saw you two nights ago, down by the boat. With the firemen.’

So Jake was right: his own son is an arsonist. He lets the thought sink in. Conor must have been watching the boat fire unfold from a safe distance. How did it come to this? His own flesh and blood. Thank God no one was injured.

‘OK, so I was here that night because of the fire,’ Silas says. ‘As a cop. I happen to know the owner of the boat, Jake. The man I was talking to down at the railway just now.’ Silas pauses. ‘The same man who saved your life.’

Conor looks up at him, seemingly shocked by the revelation. Silas lets the implications sink in for a few moments before continuing.

‘But I’m here today as a father, to find my son. Your mum and I, we’re… we’re worried sick about you. Been looking for you everywhere. Both of us.’

He’s not good at this, talking so openly about his emotions. It’s why he’s always declined Mel’s requests to attend joint counselling sessions.

‘So why didn’t you ring Mum back yesterday?’ Conor asks quietly.

Because she only ever gives Silas grief. Bucket-loads of it. Conor must have called her again later in the day, told her he was safe, no longer feeling suicidal.

‘You’re right,’ Silas says. There seems no point in arguing. ‘I should have called Mum back.’

‘Then you’d have known that your own son nearly killed himself yesterday.’

Silas closes his eyes. ‘We need to get you help,’ he says. ‘For whatever… difficulties you’re in.’

Conor reaches for a cigarette from his pocket.

‘Here, have one of mine,’ Silas says, pulling out his own packet.

Conor hesitates and then takes one, studiously avoiding any eye contact.

‘We can get you out,’ Silas says quietly. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

‘You don’t know these people,’ Conor says, lighting up with a match.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t bet against it.’ Silas lights up too. ‘I’ve met some pretty objectionable individuals over the years.’

He feels happier talking about police work, on safer ground.

‘These people are from London, Dad. They don’t give a fuck about anyone. One mistake and you’re dead.’

Silas knows Conor is right. Rural knife crime has soared since county lines got a toehold.

‘Life means nothing to them,’ Conor continues.