Robin squeezed tighter, felt her ribcage expand and contract. A cold foot – how, in the Tupperware sweat lodge? – found her shin and pressed against it. The physicality of having a child, and not just in the early days. Of course, at thirteen, Len didn’t cuddle like she used to – for years, when she was two, three, four, if they’d been in the same room, Lennie had been literally on her – but when it mattered, here they were. There’d never been anyone else whose limbs – platonically – she’d been able to tangle hers up in without thinking, unselfconscious. Even Dennis. When he’d come home this afternoon, he’d held her as tightly as she held Lennie now, but she couldn’t let herself go. She’d watched herself standing rigid in his arms, out-of-body.

Maggie had collected Lennie from school while Robin spoke to the police, so Len had already known something was wrong, but her face when she’d told her. She’d stared for a moment, aghast, and then – Robin had grabbed her – it hit home. It was the first time she’d ever lost anyone, the first time Robin had ever had to tell her someone was dead. And here, in a house that wasn’t theirs, in a school uniform that she was wearing for the very first time – that she should never have been wearing at all. ‘I’m so sorry, Len. I’m so sorry.’

She’d sobbed, shoulders shaking. Then, standing away, swiping at her eyes with her sleeve, she’d said, ‘What can we do?’

‘I don’t know, love. I’m thinking. I’m trying to think.’

But her head had crackled with white noise all day. From the moment their car disappeared from view, she’d been waiting for the police to call: they’d made a mistake; Josh had reappeared; been found; there was an explanation for why he’d been doing the bins at ten o’clock but was gone by one thirty when the neighbours called 999. Not a simple explanation, perhaps – as the afternoon ticked past, she’d queasily conceded that – but a reason. Instead, there was radio silence.

Could he have had an accident? But if it’d been serious, the police would almost certainly know. They’d have checked RTIs, hospital admissions. What else? Some kind of health crisis – a heart attack, a stroke? It ran in the family, his father had had one. What if Josh had had a spat with Corinna and driven off in a huff, blood pressure through the roof? If he’d felt ill, he might have pulled over before it happened. If he was parked on the street somewhere or in a car park, no one would think anything of it. He was young – thirty-eight. They’d glance at him and see a guy having a nap.

But someone had set the house on fire.