Molly beamed at me, delighted to have her place as best girl in the world reinforced, and I let us into the house, calling upstairs to my older daughter that we were home. I really needed her to take Molly out from under my feet for a little, just until I called Paul and then, of course, Michael. I should have been seeing him that night, at the creative writing class I tutored, but I’d hardly be teaching that night. Not after what had happened. It would have been wrong. Everything felt wrong, even the most mundane tasks.

Beth appeared at the top of the stairs, still in her school uniform, but her hair was loose around her shoulders and she was wearing her fluffy slippers instead of school shoes.

‘You called?’ she asked, giving me the same inquisitive look her little sister had just moments before.

‘Beth, could you mind Molly for a bit? I need to make a few phone calls.’

‘Mum, what’s going on?’ she asked, walking down the stairs towards me. ‘Trisha Donnelly was on Snapchat telling everyone you’d just walked out of class today. What’s up? Is it Dad?’

She was twelve years older than her little sister, but she looked just as vulnerable as she walked down the stairs towards me.

‘Mammy says she needs a nap, ’cos she’s a sleepyhead,’ Molly said, throwing her padded jacket on the floor and grabbing her favourite teddy bear from the hall table.

Beth raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘Mum?’ she asked again.

‘It’s not Dad. Dad’s fine. I’m going to call him now, but please, Beth, could you just mind Molly for a little? Put on a DVD or something. Just make sure I get a little peace.’ I heard the wobble in my voice and inwardly crumbled.

‘You’re scaring me, Mum,’ Beth whispered as if Molly didn’t have the ears of a bat.

‘Darling, please, I’ll explain it all shortly. But don’t worry. Everything’s okay.’

I felt awful lying to her, but this wasn’t something you just blurted out. Truth being told, I didn’t know how to say it. How to find the words.

Reluctantly, she led her little sister into the living room and I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, where I sat on the edge of the bed and took my phone out. It was Paul’s number that I dialled first. It rang three times before he answered. On hearing his ‘hello’, I felt my composure slip.

‘Paul,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘You need to come home. Something really awful has happened. I need you here.’

‘The girls?’ he asked.

‘They’re fine,’ I assured him. ‘It’s Clare. Paul, have you seen the news about the body found at Coney Road?’ I realised I’d started to shake.