Skidmarks define the van’s descent. It’s a sixty-foot drop and no more than a one-in-eight gradient, gentle enough for a driver to slam on the brakes and, had they failed, to jump clear before he hit the water. But there are no brakemarks on the mossy bank. The furrow is smooth all the way down. If the driver had his foot on either of the pedals, it was the accelerator, not the brake. Not an accident, then. Something more contrived.

‘Any address for the victim?’ I ask the sergeant in charge.

‘Not yet, sir. Must wait till next-of-kin are notified.’

‘Terrible thing to happen . . .’

‘Never had one go off this part of the road before.’

My suspicions are hardening, but there is not much more to corroborate here. As my eyes imprint the scene, my ears and every gene in my ancestry tug me towards the Jews on the bridge, nudging me to cover my head and recite psalms for the salvation, or soul, of the missing man.

‘ “I lift my eyes to the mountains, from where my help shall come,” ’ I hear the leader cry, each Davidian word stressed to the point of fracture.

‘ “My help comes from God, who made heaven and earth,” ’ the others respond, dragging out the final syllable, refusing to accept no answer to their prayer.

The next psalm is the Song of Steps for all forms of distress. ‘ “From the depths I have called you, O God. God: listen to my voice; let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.” ’

And from the depths of memory I hear a mocking echo, a Latinate recitation: ‘De profundis clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam, fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecationis meae . . .’

‘ “And He will redeem Israel,” ’ chants the leader of the Hebrew huddle, ‘ “from all of its sins.” ’

I yearn to join them, to lose myself in familiar verses, to commune with brethren in pain. But I cannot join. I am responsible for their distress. It was I who propelled that van into the river by pushing the driver into a position from which he had no reverse gear. Always leave an artist room to back out, my father would say. That way he can later come crawling back. I had overruled Father’s voice in my head, forcing the issue to achieve instant results. I was pressed for time; I had failed to achieve the illusion that I was master of time.

No point in prayer or tears. I can feel the beginnings of regret, but no ache of remorse. Everything must come to an end. This, at least, has ended without further damage to my family interests. It’s over, I tell myself, over at last.

‘Canning Street,’ I direct the shivering cabbie, ‘centre of Oldbridge.’ The pavement outside number thirty-two is thronged with women in black, but there is no hearse to be seen. That is all the confirmation I need. ‘Station, please,’ I command.