Mrs Ridyard was sitting on the sofa wearing slippers, a teenage girl and boy on either side of her. She had her arms round them both.

She glanced at me and whispered, “Go and tidy your rooms,” squeezing them tight before releasing them.

The children left the room looking at the carpet.

“Please sit down,” said Mr Ridyard. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Love?” he said, turning to his wife as he left the room.

Mrs Ridyard was miles away.

I sat down opposite the sofa and said, “Nice house.”

Mrs Ridyard blinked through the gloom, pulling at the skin on her cheeks.

“Looks like a nice area,” I added, the words dying but not quick enough.

Mrs Ridyard sat on the edge of the sofa, staring across the room at a school photograph of a little girl poking out between two Christmas cards on top of the TV. “There was a lovely view before they put them new houses up.”

I looked out of the window, across the road, at the new houses that had spoilt the view and no longer looked so new.

Mr Ridyard came in with the tea on a tray and I took out my notebook. He sat down on the sofa beside his wife and said, “Shall I be mother?”

Mrs Ridyard stopped staring at the photo and turned to the notebook in my hands.

I leant forward in my seat. “As I said on the phone, my editor and I thought that now would be a good…It’d be interesting to do a follow-up piece and…”

“A follow-up piece?” said Mrs Ridyard, still staring at the notebook.

Mr Ridyard handed me a cup of tea. “This is to do with the little girl over in Morley?”

“No. Well, not in so many words.” The pen felt loose and hot in my hand, the notebook cumbersome and conspicuous.

“Is this about Susan?” A tear fell on to Mrs Ridyard’s skirt.

I gathered myself. “I know it must be difficult but we know how much of your time you’ve, er, put into this and…”

Mr Ridyard put down his cup. “Our time?”