‘I’ve got a friend in the Home Office who may be able to help,’ I say, my hand already pulling the Nokia from my pocket. The strain of suppressed grief in this room is suffocating me and I’m desperate for something to do. ‘A senior official and adviser to the Home Secretary. I could give her a call and see if she can think of a way to get us the death certificate faster.’

My father fixes me with the stare that so terrified generations of his students. I find it absurd. ‘Please. Don’t trouble yourself.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘It will complicate things, Gilbert.’

I clench my jaw. When I’m seventy and he’s one hundred, he’ll still make me feel a disappointment. I feel the sting of the old wound. ‘You’d say yes if it was Clare offering.’

Dad shakes his head. The weariness of a long-suffering parent. ‘Clare was . . .’ better than me at everything? Mum has spotted the danger. ‘For goodness’ sake you two, today of all days?’

I smile weakly at her. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth.

Everywhere I look, this room reinforces the idea that the wrong child was killed. Everyone here knows that she and I were barely speaking, because of the way I abused her trust for the sake of my career. I grab my coat, head down the stairs, and yank open the door so fast I don’t notice the young man on the other side until I’m almost in his face.

He backs off the doormat. ‘Sorry. Clumsy of me,’ I say. ‘Who are you?’ I size up his tortoiseshell glasses, North Face anorak and mousey hair.

‘Jeremy. Jeremy MacDonald.’

Clare’s PA. ‘You’re Jeremy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You called Mum about the accident.’

He nods. I feel bad about my hostility.

‘I’m Gil.’

He already knows. ‘Clare’s brother. I’ve seen you at briefings with the Chancellor.’ I don’t pretend to remember. ‘You wouldn’t have noticed me. I was always offstage. I used to be in the press office.’

I’m blocking his way. Jeremy was probably the last person to see Clare alive and I need to keep him here for a bit longer. ‘What was your job with Clare?’

‘I was her bagman. Fetching, carrying, did a bit of everything. She was amazing, actually. It was hard to keep up with her. But you know that better than me.’

‘I was out of touch.’ To put it mildly, though this surprises him.

‘Clare was so devoted to you. Every morning, she’d be looking for your byline.’

That can’t be true. I know what Clare thought of my work, that I am a ‘scavenger on the scrapheap of better men’s efforts’, to use my father’s memorable phrase. Before I correct him, I hear my mother’s voice at the bottom of the stairs.