Fran is right – I would never have believed her if she had said anything to me before – not that she ever did. My relationship with Fran has always had clear boundaries. We are employer and employee, not friends, which is perhaps why I am finding it so difficult to comfort her now. Dominic is usually the one who smooths things over when Fran has lost her temper about something. So, if Dominic has been violent towards her all this time, I would never have known about it, not unless she had said something. Once Laurel is in bed, I am off the clock, and spend most evenings holed up on my own in my room, watching Netflix with my headphones on. But now I’ve seen it with my own eyes, now that I’ve seen the way his face changes when anger consumes him, then yes . . . now I can believe it, and I feel slightly sick at the thought of the things that Fran may have had to hide from me.

Fran drifts into the kitchen, her eyes slightly tinged with pink, a thin floaty kimono-style dressing gown that is totally inappropriate for the outside temperatures wrapped around her skinny frame. As she enters, Kelly bustles in to the kitchen, empty laundry basket in her hand.

‘Oh, you’re both back,’ Kelly says, and I wonder for a moment where Fran has been while I’ve been gone.

‘I have something to tell you,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself, before I can think through how I’m going to say it. ‘It’s Mr Snow.’

‘Who is Mr Snow?’ Fran asks, her eyes darting in Kelly’s direction before coming to rest on my face.

‘He’s . . . he’s a man who lives by the school,’ I stammer, feeling flustered under her gaze, even though I am pretty sure I haven’t done anything wrong. Have I? ‘Jessika Lewis saw him being taken away by a police car this morning.’

‘And you think this has something to do with Laurel?’ There is a slight tremble to her tone, but her words are like chips of ice, and I recognise it as her professional-but-angry mode. It rears its head when I haven’t done something I said I would, or if she disapproves of something I’ve said or done with Laurel. I knew I should have let Kelly or DS Wright tell her.

‘I’m not sure. It just seems like a coincidence that . . . after the reconstruction . . .’ I tail off, pathetically, looking away so I don’t have to meet her eyes.

‘And how does this Snow man know Laurel?’ Fran asks. One hand comes up to brush a stray hair away from her lip, and I see her fingers shake slightly.