‘Since Christmas? Don’t fret, I’ll ask the staff.’

‘I think she has been here… was it last week or the week before?’

Fox realised that he’d taken out his mobile phone. He was pretending to look for messages but actually checking the time. Less than three minutes since he’d locked the car.

‘I finally closed that case I was telling you about.’ He snapped the phone shut again. ‘Met with the Procurator Fiscal this morning – looks like it’s going to trial. There’s still plenty that can go wrong, though…’

‘Is it Sunday today?’

‘Friday, Dad.’

‘I keep hearing bells.’

‘There’s a church round the corner – maybe it’s a wedding.’ Fox didn’t think so: he’d driven past and the place had looked empty. Why do I do that? he asked himself. Why do I lie to him?

Answer: the easy option.

‘How’s Mrs Sanderson?’ he asked, reaching into his pocket again for his handkerchief.

‘She’s got a cough. Doesn’t want me to catch it.’ Mitch Fox paused. ‘Are you sure you should be here with those germs of yours?’ Then he seemed to think of something. ‘It’s Friday and it’s still light… Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘Time off for good behaviour.’ Fox rose to his feet and prowled the room. ‘Got everything you need?’ He saw a stack of elderly paper-backs on the bedside table: Wilbur Smith; Clive Cussler; Jeffrey Archer – books men were supposed to like. They would have been chosen by the staff; his father had never been much of a reader. The TV was attached to a bracket in a corner of the room, high up towards the ceiling – difficult to watch unless you were in bed. He’d come to visit one time and it had been tuned to the horse-racing, even though his father had never shown an interest – the staff again. The door to the bathroom was ajar. Fox pushed it open and looked in. No bath, but a shower cabinet fitted with a foldaway seat. He could smell Vosene shampoo, same stuff his mum had used on Jude and him when they’d been kids.