The snowman house was about halfway down, its position marked now by a break in the line of cars parked at the kerb. Robin scanned the pavement. No Lennie. She pulled in opposite the house, as much as the police cones allowed. No one sitting on the wall or huddled among the bushes.

The uniform was still at the gate. He gestured at her to move off; she ignored him. She made herself look properly. First the garden – the white forensics tent was still there, its pointed top just visible over Rin’s huge rhododendron – then the house itself.

Even though she’d seen it on TV, even though she’d conjured those images on the way here to prepare herself, it was horrifying. Nightmarish. The black sockets of the glassless windows, the soot stains like ghoulish make-up. The hole in the roof was covered with a large blue tarp now and the edges flapped in the wind. She could hear the snapping even in the car, like flames, crackling.

A rap on the glass an inch from her ear. She jumped then lowered the window.

‘Miss?’ The uniform stooped, bringing his face into view. He was in his late forties, sandy, avuncular. ‘You can’t park here, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m looking for my daughter.’

‘Sorry?’ A look of alarm.

‘Her name’s Lennie – Elena. Corinna and Josh were friends of ours.’ She pointed at the house. ‘I wondered if she’d come here to … see. To grieve.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He looked at her and narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘How old is she?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Have you got a picture? I’ve been here all afternoon.’

Robin showed him and he shook his head. ‘No. Sorry.’

She drove back to Hall Green sick to her stomach, eyes landing on everyone she saw: not her, not her, not her. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? She thought of Becca’s phone in its sparkly mint-green case, fallen from the bed, out of sight. Had Lennie left hers somewhere – dropped it?

A text from Will: he hadn’t seen her; keep him posted. Christine phoned again: she wasn’t in the little local branch library round the corner, either, but it was half past five now – places would be closing, wouldn’t they, shops and cafés? Maybe wherever she was would shut and she’d make her way home?

As Robin turned into Dunnington Road, her own phone rang again. A spike of hope that collapsed as soon as she saw the caller ID: Adrian. Seriously? Now? She waited for it to ring out. Almost immediately, it started again: Adrian. Was he pocket-dialling? Or had he called back to leave a message this time? It rang out and she waited for a voicemail notification that didn’t come. It rang again: Adrian. Oh, for fuck’s sake. She hit the button.