First, she felt whacked out from the back and forth over the last few days, with Chloe’s disappearance and the ensuing trail of finding her. It was almost as though the relief of knowing that Chloe was back with her mother, and safe, had allowed Theresa to let go. Now she felt drained through to the bone. She wished nothing more than to go home, curl up and sleep.

On top of all this, she was feeling increasingly troubled about the string of bizarre events, gifts and photos. The whole thing was constantly niggling away at the back of her mind. She didn’t want to talk about it because nothing about it was really that horrible, just disturbing.

There had been roses left for her, her answering machine was acting up, she’d lost her photo album and someone was returning the photos one by one, she’d been invited for a coffee and no one showed up, she had heard whispering – perhaps it had been her name – during the night. If she told anyone about these things, they would probably dismiss them as an unusual series of coincidences. But somewhere deep in her soul, Theresa was frightened that this chain of unimportant events was more sinister than the sum of its parts.

She opened the cupboard, principally to have a door to hide behind while Carol raved on about this man of hers who had a sexy voice.

On the eye-level shelf was a blue Tupperware box. It wasn’t usually there, but with so many people working in the kitchen this week, it might simply be Benjamin putting something back in a different place.

‘Well, Theresa, I can see I’m boring you, so I’ll be off.’ Carol jumped down and draped her coat around her shoulders. ‘I can always sit in the van while waiting for the delivery orders to dribble in . . . or not.’

Theresa pulled out the box and looked. On the top a handwritten name was stuck down with a Sellotaped label: ‘Theresa’.

‘Ta-ta!’ Carol turned on her heels.

‘Carol?’ Now she thanked heaven that Carol was still there with her.

‘Yes, darling?’

‘What do you think this is?’ Theresa gingerly took the box, holding it before herself on outstretched arms as if it was a sacred totem. ‘I’m too scared to open it.’

‘Why would you be frightened to open a box from one of your own kitchen cabinets? It’s cheese or butter or cookies or something, isn’t it? Didn’t you put it there?’

‘That’s the thing, Carol. I have no idea what it is. And why has it got my name on it?’