So, Mary had gone from the refuge back to Ferring, fortunately without Amy the first time, and seen with horror what had happened to their home. That was when I got involved. I’d done other stuff for the charity over the years, but never before had my decluttering skills been required because of criminal damage.

It took a good few trips with Dodge’s van to clear it all. And it was a challenge for his considerable powers of recycling. Little had been left in a state where he could repurpose it into something else. Except for some of the large bits of wood. Dodge could always find a use for bits of wood.

Mary was there while I organized the removal of the debris and she did open up to me about her situation. Maybe the time she’d spent in the sympathetic environment of the refuge made her more ready to talk. Maybe it was the knowledge that, at least for a while, Craig couldn’t get at her.

The destruction in the house was almost too obvious a symbol for the breakdown of a marriage. Mary felt sufficiently at ease with me to cry as we removed yet another shattered piece of her domestic dreams, though she did try to hold back the tears while Dodge was in the house.

The moment that got to her most was when we started to tidy up Amy’s room. The girl’s father had shown no mercy with his daughter’s possessions. Like most little girls her age, she had been obsessed by the Frozen movies, and the floor was littered with the detritus of smashed merchandise – figurines, mugs and hanging ornaments. Craig Griffin had even taken a Stanley knife to Amy’s favourite Elsa costume.

But the destruction that hurt Mary most was what had been done to her daughter’s bed. The tears poured down unchecked from her brown eyes as she said, ‘She was so proud of it. She had just moved into it. No longer a baby’s bed. A grown-up little girl’s bed. One she could get in and out of at will. She was so proud.’

The tears took over for a moment before she managed to say again, ‘So proud. And moving to the grown-up bed coincided with her not needing a nappy at nighttime. She was dry. So proud of being dry. Mind you, that didn’t last long, with all the upheaval of going to the refuge. She started bed-wetting there. Back in nappies now.’

Mary sniffed fiercely, hoping to sniff away the tears, as she went on, ‘I just hate to think what long-term damage all this has done to Amy. What it’s made her think about the things that go on between men and women, whether she’ll ever trust a man again. Whether she’ll be able to form a decent grown-up relationship herself.’

I didn’t give her a reassuring, ‘Of course she will.’ I knew too much about the effects of childhood trauma to do that. I just said, ‘If she needs it later in life, she’ll be able to get help.’