The first file was for Hilary Clarke, and underneath the top sheet was a photocopied photograph. It was a professional headshot of Hilary, and one that had been used regularly across the media since the fire. There were other images too, and Leanne sifted through them while Frankie checked her notes.

‘Hilary’s body was found upstairs in the circle. One of her students, a young lad called Jack, says she pushed him out of the way as the ceiling collapsed. She might be a hero, but she’s not Amelia’s.’

Leanne stared at a photo that would have been taken half a century ago. It was an iconic shot of a ballet dancer onstage, long limbs extended with apparent ease. ‘She was stunning.’

‘And absolutely adored by her students,’ Frankie added. ‘She didn’t have children of her own, but she was godparent to dozens.’

Frankie paused long enough to acknowledge the life lost, before closing the file.

The next victim was the youngest, and Leanne wasn’t sure if they were quick to discount her because she was clearly too short, or because neither of them could bear to look at the photos. There was a collection of Instagram pouts and raucous laughter shots of the sixteen-year-old with her friends. She had been a crush victim, and Frankie had spoken at length to her parents. She summed up their conversation in one word.

‘Harrowing.’

The third file was discounted almost as quickly; a woman in her thirties who had suffered catastrophic injuries as a result of the ceiling collapse. She had been seated in the stalls, so she would have been closer to Amelia than Hilary, but there were witnesses who were able to account for her movements right up until her death. The witnesses were her two children, who had been protected by their mother from the falling debris. They had suffered only minor scratches, but major trauma that would last a lifetime.

‘Do you need a break?’ asked Frankie, resting her hand over the name on the next file.

Leanne knew what was coming. She gritted her teeth and shook her head. ‘No, I’m OK.’

‘We know it wasn’t Lois,’ Frankie said, not needing to open the file. Lois Granger’s boyfriend had been with her the whole time, and had watched her die.

‘Next,’ Leanne said miserably.

The fifth file wasn’t so easy to discount. Angela Morris was a teacher at a local primary school. She had gone to the theatre with the girls from work to cheer on some of their students. She was an asthmatic and, after becoming separated from her friends, she had been overcome by smoke and dust, and her body was recovered from inside the theatre.

‘If it was Angela, her difficulty in breathing might explain why she couldn’t carry Amelia out by herself,’ Leanne said.