I pause for a moment before I start to walk down the path to the front door which is covered in flaking red paint, a dirty brass knocker in the middle. The front garden is in stark contrast to Mr Snow’s. In contrast to his carefully tended lawn, stripes mowed into it religiously every Sunday afternoon, the shrubs and bushes he keeps neat and trimmed, and the tulips, lobelia, roses that spring up throughout the spring and summer much to Laurel’s delight, this garden is slightly shabby. The grass hasn’t been cut since the end of the summer, and dead leaves litter the path from a cherry tree in the corner. A child’s trike lies upturned on the lawn, and there is a faint whiff of rubbish from the large black refuse bin at the end of the path, a bulge of black sack peeping out from where the lid doesn’t quite close properly.

I tuck the rain-soaked ends of my hair back under my hat and lift the battered knocker, letting it fall three times. It’s only a matter of seconds before the door is pulled open, and Katrina stands in front of me.

‘Yes?’ Her face is creased into a scowl, but it is unmistakably her. She looks slightly different to the photo I found, her body plump and curvy as opposed to the skinny runner’s frame in the picture, but I recognise her olive skin, the wide curve of her mouth, even if it is downturned now.

Nerves make my mouth freeze for a moment before her name tumbles out. ‘Katrina?’

‘Yes?’ she says again, the frown on her forehead deepening. ‘Oh – no. I’m not speaking to any journalists.’ Her voice is soft, a faint hint of a northern accent peeping through. Quickly, I raise my hand to push against the door as she starts to close it.

‘I’m not a journalist,’ I say, ‘I know your dad.’

‘You know my father?’ she says, and the pressure of the door lessens slightly against the flat of my palm. She still looks uncertain, so I plough on.

‘Look, can I come in? It’s pouring out here.’ I give a little laugh. ‘I just want to talk to you if that’s OK? I swear I’m not a journalist, or police or some weird vigilante type.’

‘No, you’re not coming in. Jesus, I don’t even know who you are – you say you know my dad but how do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be anyone.’ She folds her arms across her chest, a barrier against me, but she doesn’t close the door.