I never knew real happiness until you.

The departure board flickers its new destinations, the glass-fronted shops packed with late Christmas shoppers. Is it ever possible to be the person you once were? she wonders. And before she can be completely paralysed by the answer, Liv takes hold of her suitcase and half walks, half runs to the Underground station.

There is a peculiar quality to the silence in the flat when Jake has gone back to his mother. It is a solid, weighty thing, entirely different from the quiet that occurs when he goes to a friend’s for a few hours. The acute stillness of his home in those hours is, he sometimes thinks, tinged with guilt; a sense of failure. It is weighed down by the knowledge that there is no chance his son will come back for at least four days. Paul finishes clearing up the kitchen (Jake had been making chocolate Krispie cakes – puffed rice is scattered under every kitchen appliance) – then sits, staring at the Sunday paper he picks up each week out of habit and invariably fails to read.

In the early days after Leonie left, he dreaded the early mornings most. He hadn’t known how much he loved the irregular pad of little Jake’s bare feet and the sight of him, his hair standing on end, his eyes half closed, appearing in their bedroom to demand to climb in between them. The exquisite icy chill of his feet; the warm, yeasty scent of his skin. That visceral sense, once his son had burrowed into the middle of their bed, that all was well with the world. And then, after they’d gone, those early months of waking up alone, feeling as if each morning simply heralded another day he would miss of his son’s life. Another series of little adventures or accidents, the mosaic of unremarkable events that would help turn him into who he would become – and that Paul would have no part of.

Paul was better at mornings now (not least because, at nine, Jake rarely woke up before he did) but the first few hours after he’d gone back to Leonie still had the power to disarm.

He’ll iron some shirts. Maybe go to the gym, then take a shower and eat. Those few things will give the evening a shape. A couple of hours of television, maybe a flick through his files, just to make sure everything’s shipshape for the case, and then he’ll sleep.

He’s just finishing the shirts when the telephone rings.

‘Hey,’ says Janey.

‘Who is this?’ he says, even though he knows exactly who it is.

‘It’s me,’ she says, trying to keep the slight affront from her voice. ‘Janey. Just thought I’d check in and see how we’re fixed for tomorrow.’

‘We’re good,’ he says. ‘Sean has been through all the paperwork. The barrister is prepped. We’re as good as we can be.’

‘Did we get any more on the initial disappearance?’

‘Not much. But we have enough third-party correspondence to hang a pretty large question mark over it.’

There is a short silence at the other end of the line.

‘Brigg and Sawston’s are setting up their own tracing agency,’ she says.

‘Who?’

‘The auction house. Another string to their bow, apparently. They have big backers too.’

‘Damn.’ Paul gazes at the pile of paperwork on his desk.

‘They’ve already started speaking to other agencies about staff. They’re picking off ex-members of the Art and Antiques Squad apparently.’ He hears the hidden question. ‘Anyone with a background in detective work.’

‘Well, they haven’t approached me.’

There is a brief silence. He wonders if she believes him.

‘We have to win this case, Paul. We need to make sure we’re out there in front. That we’re the go-to people for finding and returning lost treasures.’

‘I get it,’ he says.

‘I just … I want you to know how important you are. To the company, I mean.’

‘Like I said, Janey, nobody’s approached me.’

Another brief silence.

‘Okay.’ She talks on for a bit, telling him about her weekend, the trip to her parents’, a wedding she’s been invited to in Devon. She talks about the wedding for so long that he wonders if she’s plucking up the courage to invite him, and he changes the subject firmly. Finally she rings off.

Paul puts on some music, turns up the volume in an attempt to drown the noise of the street below. He has always loved the buzz, the vitality of living in the West End, but he has learned over the years that, if he’s not in the right frame of mind, its in-your-face revelry serves only to heighten the inherent melancholy of Sunday night. He presses the volume button. He knows why it is, but he won’t acknowledge it. There’s little point in thinking about something you can’t change.

He has just finished washing his hair when he becomes dimly aware of the door buzzer. He swears, fumbles for a towel and wipes his face. He would go downstairs in a towel but he has a feeling it’s Janey. He doesn’t want her to think this is an invitation.

He is already rehearsing his excuses as he heads down the stairs, his T-shirt sticking to his damp skin.

Sorry, Janey, I’m just on my way out.

Yeah. We must discuss this at work. We should call a meeting, get everyone involved.

Janey. I think you’re great. But this really isn’t a good idea. I’m sorry.

He opens the front door with this last one almost on his lips. But it isn’t Janey.

Liv Halston stands in the middle of the pavement, clutching a weekend bag. Above her, strings of festive lights bejewel the night sky. She drops her holdall at her feet, and her pale, serious face gazes up at him as if she has briefly forgotten what she had wanted to say.