Valerie nodded. ‘She’s got another lipstick in her bag but, normally, if she’s going on somewhere after work, she takes all this with her.’ Her voice became a croak.

Maggie went back to the doorway and put her hands on her shoulders. ‘Valerie, love, I know it’s bloody impossible but try to give yourself a break, will you? You’re going to wear yourself out. Why don’t you have a cup of tea and we’ll come down when we’re finished? We’ll be very careful.’

Valerie hesitated then nodded, her eyes shining with tears.

They waited until they heard shoes on the kitchen tiles and a rush of water in the pipes. ‘Here,’ Maggie passed Robin a pair of exam gloves from her bag and put on a pair herself. She squeezed round behind her, opened the wardrobe and looked inside. ‘I’ll do this, you take the chest.’

Robin tugged the shallow top drawer open, feeling the twinge in her shoulder. After Lennie had gone to sleep, she hadn’t risked moving, and she’d come round from the semi-conscious state she’d eventually fallen into to find one arm completely dead. Crouching toad-like, trying not to wake her, she’d extricated herself via the end of the bed, smacking her head on the top bunk as she’d stepped down.

Becca’s underwear was a mix of comfortable black cotton and skimpier, lacier things in fuchsia pink, blue and jade green designed to be seen or at least worn for a bit of a private confidence boost. Like the rest of the room, the drawer was tidy – not Christine-standard by any stretch, but neater than her own by a factor of about five; the socks in pairs, for example, rather than a static knot tossed in straight from the dryer.

T-shirts, then sweaters, all redolent of fabric softener. Robin worked her way steadily through them, shaking things out then refolding and laying them carefully on the bed. She ran her fingertips into the corners of each drawer and took out the striped lining paper. No photos taped underneath or love letters cajoling her to run away, leave it all behind; no little bag of resin or pills or even a cheeky packet of Marlboro Golds.

The clothes were cheap – H&M, Primark, Zara; tops in rayon and flimsy cotton, the knitwear more manmade fibre than wool – but they’d been taken care of, ironed and neatly folded. They’d been chosen carefully, too. The going-out things had net panels and lacy bits – racy enough – but almost everything had some design, a detail that gave it a bit of flair: a ballet wrap, a boat neck, ties at the wrists.