‘Why don’t you let me make the tea, love? Give yourself ten minutes for a change?’

I hear my husband’s voice but do not turn. From the top of the stairs, I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the mail on the doormat. In the sweep of bills and white envelopes I can see it, screaming at me. The familiar dark envelope. Printed address on a cream label this time.

‘I’m fine. Really. You know me, prefer to get going.’ I hurry down to grab the letters from the floor and bundle them into a pile, feeling the firm postcard inside the envelope and tucking it into the centre as Tony begins his own descent of the stairs.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Ella?’

‘How about bacon butties? Tell Luke fifteen minutes, would you?’ I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and deliberately do not check my reflection in the hall mirror, not wanting to see the evidence. The flushed face. I really thought that by calling in Matthew, this would stop; I honestly thought that I could avoid worrying Tony, who has been through quite enough

already over all this.

In the kitchen, I rifle through the mail to hand Tony the circulars from the wine club and the bank. I know that I should tell him, and I have promised myself that I will soon. Very soon. Once I’ve spoken to Matthew. But he is going to be upset again and he’s snowed under right now, bidding for this promotion. I feel bad, because he expressly warned me not to go to Cornwall. Oh Lord. I had so hoped that Matthew would sort this.

‘Anything interesting?’ Tony is looking at the mail in my hand. ‘Insurance company. Multi-car deal.’

He pulls a face and turns away, as I switch on the oven and begin busying myself with the bread and the bacon, just as the phone goes.

‘I’ll get that,’ I say, wondering if it’s Matthew. I thought I asked him to ring me at the shop.

‘There’s something going on, Ella – isn’t there. Something you’re not telling me.’

‘Not now, Tony. Please. I’m fine.’ Damn. If it’s not the mother in

Cornwall, we have to hand the mail over to the police. Right. I will have to tell Tony then.

With one hand opening a new pack of bacon, I pick up the phone, bracing myself to ask Matthew to ring back later, at the shop.

‘Is that Luke’s mother?’

‘Yes. Ella Longfield here. Who’s this?’

‘It’s Rebecca Hillier. Emily’s mother. I was hoping we could confirm arrangements. For the meeting.’

‘The meeting? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

There is a very long pause. ‘Has Luke not spoken to you?’ ‘No. Is something wrong?’

‘Look – there’s no way I’m dealing with this on the phone. I made that very plain to Luke. So – are you free tomorrow or not?’

Tony is now mouthing questions. Who is it? What’s the matter? ‘Well – my husband is playing poker with friends, so . . .’ ‘Let’s say 7.30 p.m. At ours. Luke has the address.’

And then she hangs up.

‘That’s very odd. Very rude, actually. Get Luke down here, would you?’ ‘What’s going on?’

‘I wish I knew.’

I begin to lay half a dozen slices of bacon on the tray, placing each one slightly overlapping so they just fit. With Tony’s footsteps back on the stairs, I quickly open the dreaded envelope.

WATCH YOURSELF. I DO . . .

‘Ella! I think you’d better come up here.’

Dear God . . .

In Luke’s room, I know immediately that things are bad, the dread switching instantly from the card to my son. These last couple of weeks, he has been running later and later, for shifts at the shop and for school. There has been a letter from the school about missed lessons, too. The suggestion of a meeting with his tutor. I have been meaning to sort it out, but with so much happening . . .

‘What the hell’s going on, Luke?’ Tony is at first more cross than worried.

Luke is curled up under the covers, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

Jeans and a thick blue-green hoodie. Sweaty. Smelly.

‘You feeling cold? Going down with something?’ I try to keep my voice calm. Feeling guilty that my eye has been off the ball.

‘Start talking, Luke. What is all this about?’ Tony is opening the curtains.

Luke, his eyes dark and hooded, does not reply.

‘I’ve just had Emily’s mother on the phone. Going on about some

meeting. She was quite off with me. Seemed to think I would know. What meeting, Luke?’ I try not to sound angry.

Still he says nothing.

‘What is it, Luke?’ And now I am panicking. I am thinking – drugs? Shoplifting? Trouble with the police? No. Not my Luke, surely. My straight- As Luke, who was supposed to be in with a chance of Oxbridge until all this nonsense just lately. A phase, Tony reckoned. A little rebellion because the AS year was so much tougher than anyone expected. Maybe he’s just sick of exams. Is that it?

‘Please, Luke. Tell us what’s going on. Maybe we can help.’ Tony has softened his voice.

And then Luke takes us both by surprise and starts to cry. Great heaving waves of sobbing. Toddler tears, incongruous and dramatic and at the same time terrifying from this fully dressed six-foot-two boy wrapped in a blue striped Marks and Spencer duvet.

I know two things immediately.

That whatever has happened is very serious, and that I have been too distracted by the Anna Ballard case to even notice.