Two days later, a bitter wind bites into my cheeks as I stand alongside Fran and Dominic, behind the blue police tape that keeps us clear of the lake edge. I see Jessika behind the cordon at the edge of the woods, just as my phone flashes with a message from her – ‘Behind police tape if you need me ’ – and as I raise my eyes to her face, she lifts a hand in a tiny wave. I slide my phone back into my pocket without responding, the smiley face emoji grating on my nerves even though I know she only means to give her support.

The press are lined up further along, and I pull my hat down low over my face, but they aren’t interested in me. They’re not even interested in Fran and Dominic right now – all eyes are on the lake and what might come out of it. DI Dove didn’t want us here – in fact, he told us in no uncertain terms to stay at home – but as the dredging dragged into a second day, Dominic wouldn’t have it, despite Fran begging him to stay with her. In the end, we all filed out of the house together this morning, and now we’ve been standing here in the freezing, damp November air for hours, waiting, waiting, waiting.

A movement out of the corner of my eye distracts me from the grey, flat water of the lake and I turn my head to see the mousy woman from the school step off the path and cross the churned-up, muddy grass towards us. I glance at Fran, who stands a few feet away, her arms folded across her body, eyes scanning the water, and step away, wanting to stop the woman before she reaches them. The Jessops don’t need a stranger hassling them, not right now.

‘How are they?’ Without a word of greeting, the woman nods towards the Jessops.

‘How do you think?’ I say, frowning at her. She wears a headscarf over her mousy brown hair, a bulky black jacket, and paint-flecked jeans tucked into filthy black wellies. ‘Was there something I could help you with?’

‘I just wanted to show some support,’ she says, ‘it’s a difficult time for them.’

I nod my head. ‘Yes, it is. I’m sure they’ll be very grateful. I’ve seen you at the school before, haven’t I?’ I’m curious about this woman – I’m sure I’ve seen her many times when I’ve collected Laurel, but I simply can’t picture which child is hers.

‘Yes, my . . .’ her voice is croaky, and she stops to clear her throat, ‘my daughter went there. I still help out on the PTA sometimes.’