‘My daughter is dead,’ Max whispered. ‘My little girl with the voice of an angel.’ He cupped his hands as if she were still small enough to fit in them.

The policeman stared at him as he fumbled for his radio. ‘Where is she?’

‘At home.’ Max pointed to his mobile as if Maddy’s voice might repeat its mournful message. ‘She didn’t wake up this morning. She’s five years old for Christ’s sake.’ Max caged his face in his hands, shaking uncontrollably.

‘Okay sir, try and take some deep breaths. That’s it. Can you tell me where home is?’

‘Uxbridge. My home is in Uxbridge.’

‘Not far then. I’ll take you. We’ll get your vehicle moved, don’t you worry.’

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The days after Chloe died felt like they had been sucked into a black hole. Somehow, they got through the post-mortem revealing she had died of meningococcal septicaemia. He was left haunted by the image of her lying in her bed, her beautiful little face unrecognisable, mottled with purple blotches.

And after, the practicalities of ringing friends and arranging the funeral kept him busy in a strange way, but all the time, he longed to escape. He needed to see Ali and Jamie, to touch normality, know that it still existed.

Maddy had stopped cooking and washing herself and lay in bed all day, staring at the ceiling, sleeping or looking through old photos. She barely spoke. At night he could hear her wandering around the house and the garden. Most mornings he found her curled up on the carpet next to Chloe’s bed. She didn’t change her clothes for days. Thankfully Sarah took Emily under her wing and often came in to cook them meals and tidy up. But Maddy wouldn’t eat it. She’d put her hand to her throat as though any food she tried to swallow was stuck there. He had no appetite either, preferring the thought of collapsing into nothingness. Every room reminded him of Chloe. Her rainbow-coloured coat hung by the front door, red sandals kicked under the pew just as she’d left them. In the living room, a pottery squirrel she’d made at nursery for his birthday and her favourite film, Frozen, in its box next to the television. The kitchen cupboards were plastered with hers and Emily’s artwork. The calendar she made at school last Christmas hung on the back of the door.

He wandered into the garden one morning to have a cigarette. The slide she had pestered them to buy, the climbing frame and swing she’d spent hours playing on, all bitter reminders. When he closed his eyes he could hear her giggling. Emily wouldn’t go near the playground monuments. She wouldn’t even speak. He gazed up at the sky, trying to comprehend the enormity of his loss. As if in mourning too, the moon had disappeared.