He nods his head.

‘From what you’ve told me, Mrs Allan, it sounds like some kind of prank.’

‘No,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘No, it’s definitely her. It’s Elspeth. Nobody else writes like this and the tone of it, the voice, it’s her. My little girl is in danger. I just know it. She’s being held somewhere against her will and whoever delivered this must know something. Can you not check it for fingerprints?’

He smiles awkwardly.

‘Mrs Allan,’ he says gently, ‘we know that’s impossible because your daughter passed away. She was identified by your husband at Lewes Victoria Hospital on the twelfth of May, and her funeral took place three weeks later. There is no doubt that she’s dead.’

‘But mistakes are made all the time,’ I say, wiping my forehead which is damp with sweat. ‘Morgues get bodies mixed up. I’ve read about it. God, I swear to you, this is Elspeth. It’s her handwriting.’

‘Your husband identified the body, Mrs Allan,’ he says firmly. ‘And as your daughter only had minor facial injuries, it would have been a straightforward ID.’

I flinch. How can he say that so callously?

He has a file of notes sitting next to him; the details of Elspeth’s death all neatly explained within. But this can’t be explained. This is beyond reason. My instinct tells me the letter is from my daughter because as her mother I know; I just know.

‘Actually,’ I say, suddenly remembering something. ‘My husband was in a state of shock when he identified her. He said so in the ICU diary. He was only in there for a few minutes, how could he have been one hundred per cent certain it was her?’

Kitson looks at me, confused.

‘I can bring it in if you like, the diary,’ I say, trying to remember where I left it. ‘You can see for yourself.’

‘Mrs Allan, your husband formally identified the body as being that of your daughter, Elspeth.’

I go to speak but then, noticing his expression, decide that it’s not worth pursuing.

‘My hunch is that this is some idiot’s idea of a joke,’ says PC Kitson, looking at the letter again. ‘It’s sick and insensitive but that’s how some of these morons get their kicks. Honestly, I thought these trolls were all on the internet these days but it seems not.’

‘But why would someone do that?’ I say, my eyes raw from crying. ‘Why would someone pretend to be my daughter?’

‘I don’t know. As I said, there are some sick people out there. They hear about these accidents on the news and they want to get involved. It makes them feel significant though they’re anything but.’