Jasmine felt a moment of the kind of panic she usually felt when she was out with Jim: of being underprepared and conspicuously found out as a fraud. She didn’t have a Dictaphone or even a notepad.

Ingrams came to the rescue by placing his phone down on the table and briefly working the touch screen. Jasmine realised she had a similar function on her own mobile, but stopped herself from duplicating his actions because she thought it would be obvious to Anne that she was just copying him. She at least remembered to put her mobile to silent. Having set the office phone to divert to hers, she didn’t want any ill-timed interruptions.

‘My parents were Stephen and Eilidh Ramsay,’ Anne began, her tone slow, deliberate, well rehearsed. ‘My dad was a statistician for a chemicals company outside Milngavie and my mum was a primary school teacher. We lived in Bishopbriggs, or at least I did from about nine months; before that my parents rented a flat in Partick. My mum was from Paisley and my dad from Kilsyth, where his parents still lived.’

She sounded dispassionate, like she was talking about someone else’s family, or even someone else’s ancestors. Maybe she had laid this out a few times too many, or maybe this was her way of keeping her distance from the flames.

‘This time twenty-seven years ago, August 1983, I had just started school. I was four. It was a doubly exciting time for me, because we had a new baby. My wee brother, Charlie, was four weeks old. It was … a Friday night.’

Jasmine picked up on the pause. It wasn’t something Anne had any trouble remembering; she was taking a moment to steady her voice, check she wasn’t going to start breaking down when she went on.

‘I went to stay the night with my gran and granda, my dad’s parents. It was so my mum and dad could go out for their dinner, get a wee bit of time together, because everything had been chaotic with the new baby and everything. Plus I always loved going to my grandparents. I stayed there a lot, usually a Friday or Saturday so my mum and dad could get a night out and a lie-in. I didn’t understand their end of it back then, but I sure can now.’

‘You’ve got two yourself?’ Jasmine asked, then for a terrible moment feared she was about to be told some tragedy concerning the little boy in the pictures, who was nowhere to be seen.

‘Megan and Charlie.’

She said this latter with an awkward smile, the hint of a lump in her throat.