I waited for Stephen to take charge, be a father. Then he shattered me. ‘You’re talking about something he drew?’

I shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d disappointed us before. But Caleb needed a parent who had faith. ‘The sketches matter. Have a look.’

I sent Stephen one full photo, then a copy zoomed in on the white smudge.

‘What is it?’ he asked. Absolutely thick.

‘It’s evidence. Someone else was there.’

‘Someone without a face. Look, Phoebe, I have to get back to that meeting.’

‘Talk to me after work.’

‘I can’t do that. I already have an appointment. A well-baby check-up.’

He’d gone to none of Caleb’s.

‘We need to concentrate on Caleb,’ I said. ‘He went for his sketchbook. He saw someone there.’

There had to be something more I could do. Until Caleb was cleared, there would always have to be something else.

Douglas, I thought, Douglas had to help. I needed to get ready for dinner with Jack, but had time for a phone call. Once again, I dialled Douglas’s number. He rarely answered the phone until I’d called multiple times but I got through and told him what Jeannie found in Caleb’s drawing. ‘Someone else was there. Will they drop the charges?’

His pause was too long, his sigh too loud. ‘Things don’t work like that. It’s good to have an alternative theory, but realistically, this won’t get an adjournment.’

‘We have to explain. It has to make a difference!’

‘We can’t keep changing our testimony, Phoebe. It’ll sound like a shopping list of excuses. But the trial will continue. What does Caleb say? I should hear this from him.’

I hated legal people and their indifference to truth. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Caleb didn’t answer his mobile so I called the Hawthorn house – my own old home phone number.

Ivy answered. ‘I need to talk to Caleb.’

Ivy told Caleb he had to talk to his mother. Caleb was hesitant. ‘Hello…?’

‘There’s a white figure in your sketches. Who is that?’

A long pause. He was deciding how to react. ‘What?’

‘Jeannie spotted a white figure in your sketchbooks. Someone here during the fire. Who was it?’

‘You’re imagining things.’

My fingers ached around my telephone. ‘I can see it.’

‘Mum, they’re my sketches. I’d know. Maybe my pencils were getting blunt.’