The address on the parcel was in west London, a suburb about half an hour’s drive away. As I drove closer, the streets looked increasingly depressed. The route took me down a main road, which was dotted with small parades of shops: kebab, pizza and burger chains, late night convenience stores, laundrettes, betting shops.

The ground was patched with scraps of litter. The walls that bordered the road were daubed with spray-can graffiti in bright colours. I stared out of the window, feeling a growing sense of unease.

As I entered the neighbourhood, I lost confidence and pulled into a burger place. It was soulless. The interior was designed not for comfort but to thwart vandals and drunks. The tables and benches were made from cheap plastic with rounded corners and were moulded to the ground. The floor was covered in scuffed tiles.

I bought some chips from a spotty Chinese youth in a paper hat and sat in the window to eat. The shiny table, designed to be indestructible, was scored with cigarette burns. I looked out through the grimy window at the scruffy people waiting at the bus stop across the road. A homeless man, over-dressed in woollen hat and miser mitts, sat in a corner of the shelter, bulging with carrier bags. I wondered what kind of home Matt’s ex lived in and what sort of upbringing his daughter was getting.

The house was a little further on, a few minutes from the main road, set in a cul-de-sac on an estate. The properties were square and uniform. Nineteen-thirties, perhaps. They might have been council-owned until Margaret Thatcher put them up for grabs.

They reminded me of my childhood. Each had a short driveway and a curve of rounded bay windows across the front. The sort of rather poky house my mother would have described as a two-up, two-down.

I stopped just before number thirty-eight. The sitting room of number thirty-six was concealed by net modesty curtains. A vase with a cornflower blue posy, flanked by two neat rows of china dogs, decorated the sill. They were the kind of ornaments my grandmother used to own, before she moved into a home and most of her possessions went to the auction house.

The next house, clearly visible over the low fence, was the same design. A small garage sat beside the house, its paint peeling. The driveway was empty.

I hesitated. My thoughts had been focused on finding the house and learning what I could about it, with the pretext of delivering the parcel. Now I faltered, unsure quite why I was here. My legs faltered. The taste of chips was thick and greasy in my mouth. I didn’t know if I really wanted to meet Matt’s ex. Or his daughter.

A car slid past. It slowed, turned round at the far end of the cul-de-sac and came crawling back. I felt conspicuous. I thought of the police officers and their warning all that time ago. No more trouble.

I unfastened my seatbelt, reached for the parcel and climbed out of the car.

The house needed a fresh coat of paint. I marched up to the front door, eager now to get this over with and go home. Perhaps no one was at home and I could just leave the parcel on the doorstep.

The curtains were drawn back and I glanced through the windows as I approached. It was dark inside but light enough to show an old-fashioned and solidly conventional sitting room. It was dominated by a brushed cotton three-piece suite, set round a coffee table and angled towards a medium-sized television set on a stand. A few magazines lay on the table in a neatly aligned pile. A mirror with a gilded frame hung over the fireplace. A pair of candlesticks stood at either end. A mantel clock with a dark wooden case sat plumply between them. It was exactly the sort of room my mother would like. Tasteful, she might say. Unpretentious. It might have waited, unchanged, for the last thirty years.

I blinked. For the second time in a day, I must have picked the wrong house, the wrong street. There was no trace of a child living here. No toys, no clutter, no books. This was not the house of a young woman, a Londoner of about my own age.

A shadow shifted. I started, jumped back. A figure there, to one side of the room, watching me. A stout woman. She disappeared. My palms made sweaty marks on the padded envelope. I turned, ready to bolt.

Before I could move, the door opened. The woman stood there in the doorway. She was smartly dressed, about seventy years old. She had short, permed hair. With one hand, she pulled together across her stomach the draping flaps of a cardigan. Her other hand held the door.

‘Hello.’ She looked thoughtful.

‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong house.’

She reached out, lifted the parcel from my hands and studied the address, the handwriting, then, with the same appraising look, studied me. Her eyes were faded blue, as if time had slowly drained the colour from them. She looked familiar but I couldn’t place her.

‘You’re Jennifer, aren’t you?’ she said calmly, reading me as if she understood everything. ‘Won’t you have a cup of tea?’

She opened the door wider and stood to one side to let me in.

‘I thought you’d turn up, sooner or later.’ She sounded resigned and rather sad. ‘But I wasn’t quite sure when.’