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Running my fingers along the cold park railings as I walked on through the leafy night, I imagined Barbara Shipman waking up on the day of her discovery, cleaning her teeth, getting dressed and having her breakfast, all as usual, and then preparing to face what seemed like another ordinary day. The truth is, none of us have the slightest idea what we’re in for when we get up in the morning. A phone rings, a shadow dances across a wall, a plane falls out of the sky, a letter arrives out of the blue and, before we know it, the world is a different place.

I stopped at a windy junction on the lonely road home, the blowing leaves tumbling all around me. Turn left, and I’d be back at the flat in less than five minutes. Carry on along the park-side road, and it’d take me to the red post box opposite the old, boarded-up church at the end of the street.

I unzipped my coat pocket and pulled out Andrew Black’s letter. The hungry wind pulled and tugged at it, but I kept my grip tight.

Take it home and burn it, Sophie had said.