‘I’ll know more soon,’ I told him. ‘I’m nearly at the police station.’

‘They probably won’t let you see him. He’s legally an adult, Phoebe. Eighteen.’

Stephen was right. The receptionist said I couldn’t see him until he’d moved to the Remand Centre, probably tomorrow. Only a lawyer could visit him that night.

I called Douglas again, from the police station car park. He promised he’d meet me at the Remand Centre in the morning and told me to go home. Lawyers were beating me. I went home. Reporters had left only cigarette butts and fast food wrappers. Our home was no longer the centre of the story – news had moved on. I parked on the detritus. My phone buzzed. Had Stephen or Douglas fixed anything?

No. It was an email from Marco, who cared about me but didn’t know what was happening. As usual, he’d been prodding the earth for the secrets it would whisper if he hit just the right place. He sent photos of a recent find, a shrine showing the manufacture of Jupiter’s lightning bolts. Once again Marco ended his email with a message to Skype when I could.

I needed a distraction. Marco answered and launched into a conversation about Jupiter. Jupiter became fascinated with fire as a child raised by sea nymphs, then married Venus and built a forge under Mount Etna that erupted when Venus was unfaithful.

‘You’re troubled,’ he noticed, eventually. Our long friendship gave him illicit access to my thoughts. ‘Something about Caleb? It can’t be easy, being a mum. Think of all those Roman parent/child relationships. Marcus Aurelius…’ Marcus was a great philosopher and Emperor but his lustful, incompetent son Commodious almost brought the empire down. ‘And Agrippina… Phoebe, you’re not all right, are you? You’re so quiet.’

I didn’t know how to react.

‘There are big problems?’ Marco kept going. ‘Nero’s only daughter died, remember. As a baby. Then he kicked his wife to death when she was pregnant. A bad son and a bad father.’

‘A bad son isn’t my problem.’

It had been a mistake to call, emphasising my failure. Marco rescued history from the prison of time, but I couldn’t rescue my own son at all.

I disconnected. I turned on the television. Everything was a mistake, feeding my misery and obsession. The news channel showed a city funeral for one more of the released dead. I stared at a cathedral statue and vowed I wouldn’t be the Pieta, weeping over my son’s sacrificed body. I would save him.

‘Offer bail!’ I yelled at Stephen over the phone. ‘Why is Caleb still in jail?’

‘Bail isn’t something you offer.’ Stephen tried to sound reasonable. ‘It’s only been a few hours. We’ll do this.’