A long hot shower eased some of the aches and she felt more herself an hour later as she came back downstairs.

There was still no message from Jack. She tried ringing, left a voicemail, left a text and threw the phone on the table in frustration. Finally, she could wait no longer and at eight thirty she rang DI Fanshawe. The call was answered immediately, the detective’s voice brisk and alert. At least, she hadn’t woken him. ‘Jack hasn’t come home,’ she said, dispensing with any preliminaries.

There was a moment’s silence before he answered. ‘We went around to Charlie Forster’s apartment around three,’ he said, ‘there was nobody there. The spare bedroom had obviously been used. I left an officer there, and he reported back about twenty minutes ago. Mr Chatwell hasn’t turned up.’

Molly’s heart fell. ‘He isn’t answering the phone. Oh God, you don’t think he’s done something stupid, do you?’

She heard a heavy breath on the line before Fanshawe answered. ‘I’ll have one of my men make some calls, Mrs Chatwell, but I wouldn’t start worrying. There are any number of places he could be, there are far more places to gamble in London than people are aware of. If it’s suitable, I’d like to call around later and get that statement done.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she answered, her mind on Jack. How could he gamble, he’d no money? ‘I’ll be here whenever you want to come,’ she said and hung up. She tapped the phone against her lips, then did an internet search for casinos. Far more than she expected. Twenty something in central London alone. She tried the first on the list, hanging up moments later with a frustrated grunt. Unsurprising, they weren’t giving out any information. She’d have to rely on DI Fanshawe.

Restless, she sat on the sofa and switched on the TV for company. A minute later, she switched it off and reached for a book, only to put it down without opening it. What were they going to do? Her eyes drifted around the room, lingering on the furniture, the ornaments, all the lovely things they’d acquired over the years. She’d been wrong; it wasn’t the house or the stuff that was important, it was all the memories attached to them.

They could make new ones elsewhere. They’d sell up, move out of London and buy something smaller. They’d have a spare bedroom where Freya and Remi could visit. Visit. With a sad smile, she decided it was time she accepted the truth; they were unlikely to ever live at home again. But, if they were happy, that was okay.