Forget Dennis. Returning to the search engine, he typed in the words Den McKinnon instead.

Last time he’d tried this, the reply, ‘no match found’, had flashed up.

This time the search engine came up with a lone match. Kerr clicked onto the site, belonging to a rugby club in Sydney, Australia.

There was the name again, Den McKinnon listed as fly half for an amateur rugby club. No photographs. No further clues. Had his brother even enjoyed playing rugby at school? Kerr couldn’t remember.

It was a long and flimsy shot, but he may as well give it a go.

E-mailing the club secretary, Kerr wrote:

Dear Sir,

You have a Den McKinnon on your rugby team who may or may not be my long-lost brother. Could you please pass this message on to him, and ask him to reply letting me know either way? I urgently need to contact my brother as soon as possible. My address and phone number are .. .

Many thanks.

Kerr McKinnon.

When it was done, Kerr pressed send and envisaged the message popping up in the inbox of a computer in an air-conditioned office somewhere in sunny Sydney, Australia. After years of e-mailing, it still never failed to impress him that it was possible to make instantaneous contact in this manner, across the world.

Whether the reply would be instantaneous was another matter. Would he even get one? What if the club secretary mentioned it in passing to Den McKinnon, a grizzled sheepshearer from the outback, who said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll give the guy a call and tell him it ain’t me,’ then promptly forgot all about it?

‘Right,’ Sara abruptly announced from the doorway. ‘Got it.’

Kerr heaved a sigh. ‘Got what?’

‘That little newsagents on the corner of Tapper Street and Marlborough Hill, where I buy my paper every morning. The bloke who runs it is really friendly and nice.’

‘So?’ Kerr pictured Den McKinnon scratching his big grizzled head, going, ‘Strewth, mate, what’s an e-mail when it’s at home?’

‘So,’ Sara repeated with exaggerated patience, ‘I’m going to ask him if the Peach Tree can deliver our order to his shop every morning, and if he can look after it for us until one of us pops down there before lunch to pick it up.’

Kerr forced himself to pay attention.

‘Won’t that sound a bit weird?’

‘Of course it’ll sound weird. We’ll just have to tell him the truth,’ said Sara with a shrug. ‘That you broke the deli delivery girl’s heart and that’s why she refuses to bring us our sandwiches any more.’

‘I didn’t break her heart.’ Kerr imagined his brother shaking his head, snarling, ‘Why would I want to speak to that asshole when I haven’t even seen him for years?’

Sara gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Of course you didn’t. Anyway, I think the newsagent bloke will do it. We’ll have to pay him, of course, but you can do that. So shall I pop down now and ask him or

—’

Kerr’s mobile phone began to ring. Snatching it up, he glanced at the caller number on the screen and felt his heart beat faster.

‘Hello?’

‘Kerr?’

It was Den. It was weird. Hearing his voice again after so long. .

‘Yes. Hi. How are you doing?’ Kerr’s throat tightened. This was his brother. He was also the reason why he and Maddy couldn’t be together.

Kerr waved Sara out of the office.

‘I’m OK.’ Den sounded wary. ‘Jed from the rugby club just gave me a ring and passed on your message. What’s this about?’

‘It’s our mother.’ God, it sounded so cold, so formal, but Pauline had never wanted to be called Mum. ‘She’s dying.’

Pause. Then, from ten thousand miles away, Den said, ‘And?’

‘She wants to see you.’

‘Really. And what would be the point of that?’

It was a chilling response from a son who, prior to his spell in prison, had been utterly devoted to his mother.

‘She’s desperate to see you before she dies,’ Kerr persisted, ‘and she doesn’t have long. She begged me to find you.’

‘I don’t know. It’s a long way to come.’

‘She’s in a bad way, Den. I had to move her into a nursing home. Look, I can wire you the money for the plane ticket—’

‘No need for that. I’ll think about it. I may come or I may not,’ Den said defiantly.

‘OK." This was a step up from an outright refusal. ‘It would be good to see you again.’

As he said it, Kerr wondered if he meant it; in truth, his feelings towards Den were very mixed.

‘Would it?’ His brother’s laughter was hollow, tinged with bitterness and doubt.

‘Are you married?’ It was odd to think that Den could have a wife and children, a whole family they knew nothing about.

‘Married? No.’ Den paused. ‘You?’

‘Me neither.’ Thanks to you.

‘ Not even seeing anyone?’

Kerr wondered how Den would react if he were to tell him who he’d been seeing up until last week.

It wasn’t the kind of discussion you could get into, under the circumstances. Aloud he said, ‘No.’

‘Haven’t met the right girl yet?’

Oh, I’ve met her, all right.

‘Something like that.’ Kerr’s tone was brusque.

‘Right, well. Have to go now. If I decide to come over, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Shall I send you the money for the plane ticket?’ Pause.

‘If you want,’ Den said awkwardly.

‘Give me your bank details then.’ If he wired the money, maybe Den would feel morally obliged to fly over.

‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll be in touch when I do. Is the house still there?’ Den asked abruptly. ‘I mean, still in the family?’

So that was what was interesting him, thought Kerr. Hillview was worth in the region of three quarters of a million pounds.

‘It’s still in the family.’ Drily he told Den, ‘Don’t worry, as soon as she dies you’ll get your fifty per cent.’

There was a stunned silence, then Den said, ‘Fuck off, Kerr,’ and hung up.

‘All sorted,’ Sara announced.

Miles away — over ten thousand miles away — Kerr looked up and said, ‘What?’

‘Jameson’s Newsagents. The bloke who runs it is Mike Jameson,’ Sara patiently explained. ‘He’s agreed to do it, take in our sandwich delivery and keep it in his back room until one of us arrives to pick it up. He’s charging twenty quid a week, which you’ll be paying because this whole thing’s your fault.’

‘Fine,’ said Kerr.

As she closed the door behind her, Sara thought, Damn, should have said forty.

Chapter 36

Marcella had cut down on her hours at Dauncey House, which suited Estelle down to the ground. With Will staying, acting normally around her family wasn’t a problem, probably because in their eyes she was the least likely person in the world to be indulging in illicit naughtiness. But Marcella was a different matter, altogether more observant. Not much got past her. Estelle, terrified of letting her guard slip, was finding it increasingly difficult — but at the same time oddly exhilarating — to maintain an air of normality.

Luckily Marcella had other things on her mind to distract her.

‘She’s not eating. I took one of my casseroles over to the cottage last night and Jake says she didn’t even touch it. And the weight she’s lost — you don’t think she’ll make herself ill, do you?’

‘Of course she won’t.’ Estelle’s tone was comforting. ‘Girls break up with boys all the time and get over it.’

‘I know Maddy’s unhappy,’ said Marcella, ‘and I hate to see her like this, but what’s done is done. It isn’t as if she can blackmail me into changing my mind, because how can I? She can’t carry on seeing him and that’s that. Now, give me that cup.’ She reached across the table for Will’s empty coffee cup. ‘And as soon as I’ve loaded the dishwasher I’ll be off.’

‘Can I film you doing it?’ Will picked up his hand-held video camera.

‘What, bending over to stack the plates? Me and my big bottom filling an entire TV screen? What a treat that’d be for the nation,’ said Marcella. ‘No thanks.’

Estelle said, ‘Leave the dishwasher, I can do that. You go home and get some rest. And ginger biscuits are good for stopping you feeling yuk,’ she added, because Marcella’s morning sickness had kicked in with a vengeance.

‘You know, I’m just so glad to be pregnant, I don’t even mind the feeling sick.’ Her eyes shining, Marcella gave her stomach a protective pat. I’ve spent so many years longing to know what it feels like.

It’s proof that it’s actually happening at last.’

When Marcella had left, Estelle carried on with the ironing. Acutely aware of Will’s eyes upon her, she tried her best to concentrate on the sleeves of Oliver’s favourite speedwell blue Turnbull and Asser shirt.

‘I love the way your bottom wiggles when you do that.’

‘Sshh.’ Estelle bit her lip and smiled to herself, because it had to be twenty years since anyone had said anything nice about her bottom.

‘Slow, slow, quick-quick slow.’ Will, coming up and standing behind her, placed his hands on her hips as they swayed from side to side. Into her ear he murmured, ‘I thought Marcella would never leave. I’ve been counting the seconds.’

‘And Oliver’s upstairs,’ said Estelle, as if he needed reminding. Oliver was currently conducting a four-way transatlantic conference-call, before heading off to Zurich on yet another business trip. In order to allay any suspicions of hanky-panky, Will had to return to London. She wouldn’t see him for at least a week and already the prospect seemed unendurable.

She must endure it, Estelle knew that. Oliver was basically a good man, hard-working — if not a bit too hard-working — and honest. He didn’t deserve to be cheated on.