‘You’ve been to see Mitch?’ she surmised.

‘He was asking for you.’

‘I was there last week.’

‘After you fell down the stairs?’

‘I’m fine. A few bumps and bruises.’

‘Would those bruises be facial, Jude?’

‘You sound just like a cop, Malcolm. I was bringing some stuff downstairs and I fell.’

Fox was silent for a moment, watching the traffic. ‘So how are things otherwise?’

‘I was sorry we didn’t get the chance to catch up over Christmas. Did I thank you for the flowers?’

‘You sent a text at Hogmanay, wished me a Gappy New Zear.’

‘I’m hopeless with that phone – the buttons are too small.’

‘Maybe drink had been taken.’

‘Maybe that, too. You still on the wagon?’

‘Five years dry.’

‘No need to sound so smug. How was Mitch?’

Fox decided he’d had enough fresh air; opened the car door and got in. ‘I’m not sure he’s eating enough.’

‘We can’t all have your appetite.’

‘Do you think I should get a doctor to look at him?’

‘Would he thank you for it?’

Fox had taken a packet of mints from the passenger seat; popped one into his mouth. ‘We should get together some night.’

‘Sure.’

‘Just you and me, I mean.’ He listened to his sister’s silence, waiting for her to mention her partner. If she did that, maybe they could have the real conversation, the one they’d been dancing around:

What about Vince?

No, just the two of us.

Why?

Because I know he hits you, Jude, and that makes me want to hit him back.

You’re wrong, Malcolm.

Am I? Want to show me those bruises and the staircase where it’s supposed to have happened?

But all she said was: ‘Okay, then, we’ll do that, yes.’ Soon they were saying their goodbyes and Fox was flipping shut the phone and tossing it across to the other seat. Another wasted opportunity. He started the engine and headed home.