‘I met Mr Codi,’ said DS Finborough. ‘He didn’t say anything about his relationship with Tess, other than as a former student.’

Emilio still disowned you, even when you were missing. I’m sorry. But that’s what his ‘discretion’ always was – disownership hiding behind a more acceptable noun.

‘Do you know why Mr Codi wouldn’t want us to know about their relationship?’ he asked.

I knew it all too well. ‘The college doesn’t allow tutors to have sex with their students. He’s also married. He made Tess take a “sabbatical” when the bump started to show.’

DS Finborough stood up; his manner had shifted up a gear, more policeman now than Oxbridge don. ‘There’s a local news programme we sometimes use for missing people. I want to do a televised reconstruction of her last known movements.’

Outside the metal-framed window a bird sang. I remembered your voice, so vividly that it was like you were in the room with me:

‘In some cities birds can’t hear each other any more above the noise. After a while they forget the complexity and beauty of each other’s song.’

‘What on earth’s that got to do with me and Todd?’ I asked.

‘Some have given up birdsong altogether, and faultlessly imitate car alarms.’

My voice was annoyed and impatient. ‘Tess.’

‘Can Todd hear your song?’

At the time I dismissed your student intensity of emotion as something I’d grown out of years before. But in that police room I remembered our conversation again, because thoughts about birdsong, about Todd, about anything, was an escape from the implications of what was happening. DS Finborough sensed my distress. ‘I think it’s better to err on the side of caution. Especially now I know she’s pregnant.’

He issued instructions to junior policemen. There was a discussion about the camera crew and of who would play you. I didn’t want a stranger imitating you so I offered to do it. As we left the room, DS Finborough turned to me. ‘Mr Codi is a great deal older than your sister?’