I put the book on the desk.

And then we had a conversation that I found, at the time, infuriating, and that I now think is the most honourable nine minutes anybody spent on my behalf in the whole of this.

I asked him about the account.

He said he was not able to discuss it with me.

I said I was Margaret Henderson’s granddaughter.

He said he knew that, and that he was still not able to discuss it with me.

I said she had written his name in the book, and I turned it round and showed him the pencil line on the first page, and I watched a sixty-three-year-old man read his own name in a dead woman’s handwriting and not change his face at all.