‘OK. . . Er. . .’ Chalmers dug out her glasses and slipped them on. ‘“Today was a good day, I didn’t cry once, and Mum made tuna casserole for tea. Jemma and Penny want to go see a band on Saturday night, but I’ve got a history test to revise for, so I don’t think I can go”. . .’ A sniff. She looked up from the pages. ‘Nothing very dramatic. Nothing that says, “I’m running away to set up house with my boyfriend.”’ Chalmers flipped back a few pages. ‘Here she’s talking about watching TV. . .’ Back another two. ‘They went to the shops and bought some new socks and she got a book. . .’ Further back. ‘She wants to have a couple of friends over for dinner, but her mum won’t let her, says they’re a bad influence. And Agnes is actually OK with that.’ Chalmers curled her top lip. ‘Kid’s got no spine.’

‘Does she mention Anthony Chung at all? ’

‘Not so far. Mind you. . .’ Chalmers nodded at the neatly ordered bookcase, then the tidy desk, then the chest of drawers with a single porcelain figurine of a dragon on top of it – perfectly centred in a lace doily. ‘Doesn’t exactly come off as a wild child, does she? Even her books are alphabetically arranged by author. When I was her age I was getting blootered every weekend with Duncan Peters in his parents’ summerhouse, while they were out getting the weekly shop from Asda.’

Logan stood. ‘So she was keeping secrets from the diary? ’

‘With a nosy mum like that? ’ Chalmers closed the book and tied the ribbon. ‘Or maybe Agnes is just really, really boring. . .’ Frown. ‘You notice there’s no photos in here? No birthday parties, or holiday snaps, or hanging out with friends? Just book and movie posters? ’

‘Parents seem genuinely worried about her. Maybe a bit too much? ’

‘Think they’ve killed her and buried her in the basement? ’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone did it.’

Chalmers slid the diary back on the shelf. ‘Is it just me, or is there something . . . wrong with the room? You know, like. . .’

Silence.

‘Like what? ’

‘Don’t know. Like someone doesn’t really live here? It’s too ordered, too tidy, there isn’t any personal stuff.’ She picked a stuffed tiger from the group on the bed. ‘Look at these: none of them are worn, or tatty, or threadbare. They’ve never been loved, they’re just things.’ She gave the tiger a hug. ‘Maybe the thing that’s missing is the childhood? ’