I sink into Dominic’s luxury leather chair, feeling the worn area made by the shape of his body, my head starting to throb at the temples as I pull open the drawers, rifling through all the bills and paper, nothing standing out to me. The papers spill out and I shove them back into the drawer, carelessly, telling myself that if Fran notices she’ll just think it’s a result of the police search. Leaving the office, I pull the door tight shut behind and head for Fran and Dominic’s bedroom, my feet heavy on the stairs as I make my way up there. I’m still telling myself this is ridiculous, that Fran wouldn’t ever do anything to harm Laurel, and she certainly wouldn’t see Dominic in prison for something he didn’t do, but Pamela’s words seem to shout even louder in my head – she’s not so innocent.

At their bedroom door I pause, still a healthy amount of respect for their privacy making me reluctant to enter their private domain. I give myself a shake and push the door open, slightly shocked at the mess that confronts me.

At first I think maybe the police didn’t tidy up after they searched the house last time, but I know that Fran would never have left it like this for so long, not unless she was leaving in a hurry, which it now seems like she did. It’s as though she threw some belongings into a bag and ran out, the minute I left the house before Christmas. Tights and underwear litter the blue and gold bedspread, and while her hairbrush and straighteners are missing from the top of the dressing table, her make-up still covers the top, the lid removed on a bottle of foundation, leading to a small, dried patch of porcelain etched into the wood.

Without thinking about things too hard, I yank open her drawers, pulling out T-shirts, knickers, scarves, shaking them out to make sure I don’t miss a thing. I find nothing, not even a hidden diary, until I reach under the mattress and my fingers brush against what feels like a slip of paper. Reaching further in, until my armpit is pressed up against the edge of the bed frame, I manage to snare the paper in my fingers and pull it out.

It’s a receipt, from a local supermarket for a large bar of milk chocolate and a pint of milk. Nothing exciting in that, but when I turn it over, there is ‘P’ scrawled across it in biro, with a postcode written underneath. P. Polly? Or Pamela? I turn the thin piece of paper over and over in my hands until it becomes damp.