The window is surprisingly huge for an office and spring sunshine floods through it.

‘So you made a connection between Tess’s disappearance and Leo’s death?’ Mr Wright asks.

‘No.’

‘You said you thought about Leo?’

‘I think about Leo all the time. He was my brother.’ I’m tired of going through this. ‘Leo died of cystic fibrosis when he was eight. Tess and I didn’t inherit it, we were born perfectly healthy.’

Mr Wright tries to turn off the glaring overhead light, but for some reason it won’t switch off. He shrugs at me apologetically and sits down again.

‘And then what happened?’ he asks.

‘Mum met me and I went to the police station.’

‘Can you tell me about that?’

Mum was waiting at the arrivals gate wearing her Jaeger camel coat. As I got closer, I saw that she hadn’t brushed her hair and her make-up was clumsily applied. I know; I hadn’t seen her that way since Leo’s funeral.

‘I got a taxi all the way from Little Hadston. Your plane was late.’

‘Only ten minutes, Mum.’

All around us lovers and relatives and friends were hugging each other, reunited. We were physically awkward with each other. I don’t think we even kissed.

‘She might have been trying to phone while I’ve been gone,’ Mum said.

‘She’ll try again.’

But I’d checked my mobile countless times since the plane had landed.

‘Ridiculous of me,’ continued Mum. ‘I don’t know why I should expect her to phone. She’s virtually given up calling me. Too much bother, I suppose.’ I recognised the crust of annoyance. ‘And when was the last time she made the effort to visit?’

I wondered when she’d move on to pacts with God.