“There’s nothing to notice, Beth,” says Dom. “It’s a photo of two children. Come on. I think we’ve taken up enough of these people’s time.” He stands up.

Cater follows his lead. Jeanette too. I’m the only one still seated. All three of them are thinking that this will soon be over.

“Who’s Chimpy?” I ask Kevin Cater.

“I’ve no idea,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looks at Jeanette, who shakes her head.

“Means nothing to us,” says Kevin. “Sorry.”

My sense is that they’re telling the truth—but only about not knowing who Chimpy is. About everything else, they’re lying. Watching them now, the way they’re rearranging themselves, getting into position for the next rehearsed lie, I feel as if we’re back in the charade after a small interlude of honesty.

“I hope we were able to help?” says Jeanette.

“Hugely,” says Dom.

“I’m not sure your wife agrees.” Kevin stares at me.

“Oh, I do,” I say, adjusting my tone carefully. “I’m very glad we came. It’s been extremely useful.”

“I don’t want to find you outside my house or in my wife’s car again, Mrs. Leeson.”

“I know you don’t, Kevin. I wouldn’t want that either, if I were you.”

*

I’m sitting in my room in the dark when Zannah comes in and switches on the light. “Are you hiding?” she says. “Dad said he couldn’t find you.”

“He didn’t look very hard, then. What time is it?”

“Twenty past ten.”

I’m about to say “at night?” but stop myself in time. The curtains are open and it’s dark outside. “Ben’s not still playing Fortnite, is he?” I ask.

“No, he’s in bed—teeth brushed, clean pajamas, room tidied.” She smiles proudly. “I am going to make such a great parent one day.”

“Dad should have sorted Ben out,” I say, and it feels like a monumental effort to push out each word.

“Yeah, or you should, as you’re his mother,” Zannah quips. “Dad’s snoring in front of the world’s most boring documentary. Mum, what’s going on? Dad said you’ve barely said a word since you left the Caters’ house. Are you pissed at him? Was he, like, really annoying?”

I smile. “Not really. He did and said what almost anyone in his situation would do and say.”

“So you’re all good, you and him?”

“I’m not annoyed with him, if that’s what you mean.”

“He also said you threatened Kevin Cater.”

“Not in so many words.”

“But you kind of threatened him.”

“Kind of. Nonspecifically. I just let him know that I think he and his wife are creepy liars.”

“Mum, you should be careful. At this rate Ben’s going to have to get some of his baddest roadman mates to back you on ends.”

“Back me on what?”

“Ugh, you’re so old. Never mind. But that’s why you shouldn’t go around starting trouble.”

“Because I’m too old? I’m really not that old, Zannah.”

She flops down on the bed next to where I’m sitting. “So what happened then?”

“Didn’t Dad tell you?”

“He said the kids living in that house aren’t Thomas and Emily Braid, and don’t look anything like how Thomas and Emily used to look when they were little.”

“We were shown a photo of two young children who looked nothing like Thomas and Emily Braid. That’s true.”

“So . . . how come you’re not saying, ‘I made a mistake, it’s all over’?”

“Because the more I’m told and the more I see, the more certain I am that I didn’t make a mistake.”

“Fair enough,” she says easily.

“Have you been revising?”

She snorts. “No.”

“Zan—”

“Tell me about the Greek changing room.”

“What?”

“Your Lewis Braid story about the two-thousand-pound changing room in Corfu.”

“If I tell you, will you start revising?”

“Definitely. Immediately afterward. All night long.” She grins. “Please?”

“It’s nothing important or particularly interesting. Just something funny that happened when Dad and I went on holiday with Lewis and Flora to Corfu before you were born. We’d booked an apartment on a beach—literally on the sand, a few meters from the sea, beautiful sandy beach . . . Anyway, one day we went off in search of a restaurant serving better food than what was available nearby. Flora and Dad and I were all fine with the usual tzatziki and olives and stuff, but Lewis was appalled, pretty much from day one, by the quality of the meat at the two tavernas on the beach. He called it ‘gray flesh cubes on sticks.’”

“Sticks?”

“Kebab sticks. Anyway, he made a fuss—and when Lewis kicked off, it was impossible to ignore—so we went off looking for somewhere better and we found this hotel. It wasn’t exactly posh—really good hotels are in short supply on Greek islands—but it was certainly a step up from where we were staying, and the closest to posh that we were likely to find, and we had a lovely lunch there with meat that Lewis thought was good, but he still wasn’t happy. He was always such a perfectionist. Like, nothing could be wrong. Nothing unsatisfactory could be allowed to stand.”

“He sounds like a twat.” Zannah yawns.

“You know what? I think he is, and was, but I somehow didn’t fully realize it. I was young and easily impressed and he was so entertaining, and confident. We all just kind of assumed he was brilliant because he acted as if that was beyond doubt. Anyway . . . the hotel’s restaurant opened out onto a swimming-pool terrace. Stunning pool: huge, with absolutely no one in it or sitting around it. Apart from us, there were only two other people eating in the restaurant. We got the impression that the hotel was pretty much empty, and by the time we were ready to pay the bill and leave, Lewis was obsessed—completely obsessed, as much as he had been before about finding decent meat—with that swimming pool.”

“Why? Shit!” Zannah presses all of her fingers against her forehead, then spreads them out. “I’m trying not to frown, so that I don’t get too wrinkly when I’m older. Antiaging moisturizer can only do so much. I’ve got to train myself to be surprised without scrunching up my face. Why did Lewis suddenly get obsessed with a swimming pool?”

“He said that no holiday was worth going on unless it had a great swimming pool as well as a great beach. He said it as if it was something he’d always thought and passionately advocated, though he’d never mentioned it before. It was so weird. He was the one who’d booked our holiday, chosen the place, everything. He’d happily booked an apartment on a gorgeous beach, with no swimming pool—but only about thirty footsteps from the most stunning, clear blue sea!—and then suddenly he was in the most horrendous mood because going to the hotel had ruined everything for him. Seeing that pool had made him think that his holiday was beyond flawed.”

“Mum, he sounds like the biggest arse that ever lived.”

“He certainly acted like one that day. He looked as if he might explode with murderous rage at any moment. Dad was taking the piss out of him, Flora was warning him to stop, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Then, suddenly, he leaps up from the table and storms over to reception. No one knows what he’s planning to do or say. Obviously we follow him, and find him negotiating with the receptionist: why can’t we come and swim in their pool every day if we want to, if we eat at the restaurant? No one else is using the pool. The receptionist explained that the pool is for hotel guests only. An argument started, lasting twenty minutes at least, with Lewis insisting that anyone who eats in the restaurant surely qualifies as a temporary hotel guest, and the receptionist saying, no, it doesn’t work like that, a guest is someone actually staying in the hotel.”

“Ugh. Weren’t you horribly embarrassed?” Zan asks.

“Weirdly, no. Anyone watching would have noticed no one but Lewis, so the embarrassment, I figured, was all his. Not that he felt it for a second. Once he saw that his valid guest argument wasn’t going to work, he tried another tactic. He asked if we could pay a small fee to come and swim at the hotel, as day guests. The receptionist was nearly in tears by this point.”

“I’m not surprised. I’d have said, ‘You like our pool so much? I’ll be happy to drown you in it, you fucker.’”

“Zan, don’t swear.”

“Ugh, Mum, relax. What happened next?”

“The receptionist said no to Lewis’s day-membership scheme, even after he told her in great detail about various hotels in the UK that allow people to do precisely what he was proposing.” I laugh at the memory. “What does a Corfu hotel receptionist care if the Quy Mill Hotel in Stow-cum-Quy, Cambridgeshire, lets anyone buy a day membership for a tenner? She just kept saying, ‘My boss not allow, my boss not allow.’ It looked as if Lewis was defeated for once—Dad was helpfully pointing that out, saying, ‘Come on, Lewis, you’ve tried your best. Isn’t it time to give up now?’”

“Ha! Dad always thinks it’s time to give up. Like, even before you’ve started trying.”

“True. But in this case he was right, or at least we all thought he was. Lewis had other plans, however.”

“What did he do?”