‘He’s got the same sort of car that they’re looking for. A dark SUV?’ Katrina says. ‘Someone knows his history, and what car he’s driving and put two and two together. But they got five, Anna. He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t take Laurel.’

‘How?’ I say quietly, my eyes on Katrina’s son. ‘How can you be so sure that he didn’t have something to do with Laurel going missing? And don’t just say it’s because he’s your father.’

Katrina gets to her feet, scooping the boy up from the floor into her arms. He wails as he drops the toy car, and I stoop to pick it up for him.

‘He gave Laurel this.’ I pull the little toy doll from my back pocket. Katrina plucks it from my hand, turning it over, inspecting it.

‘That belongs to Maryiam. My daughter. The fact that he gave it to Laurel doesn’t mean anything. He’s kind. That’s all.’

‘But . . .’

‘It’s time you left,’ Katrina says, her voice like steel as she ushers me towards the front door, angling herself so that I have no option but to leave. As we reach the door, Katrina giving me a gentle shove over the threshold, she speaks again.

‘I know he didn’t do it, Anna, because he was with me.’ Her voice is low and serious, as she hefts the boy higher up on her hip. ‘It was Oskar’s birthday on Saturday. Dad came over in the afternoon, to help me with his party. He had his nursery friends over. Dad stayed here till probably ten o’clock, and then he left. Long after Laurel went missing. That’s how I know. And that’s what I’ve told the police. Don’t come here again.’ And she slams the door firmly closed in my face.

Ruth is in the kitchen when I arrive home, my head filled with my conversation with Katrina, which I replay over and over again. I look to Fran in confusion.

‘She brought food. Again.’ She sits at the table, her fingers playing with a single cigarette, as Ruth bustles about the kitchen reheating something from yet another foil-covered dish. The fact that she is here again makes me feel slightly uncomfortable – after all, she barely knows any of us and surely, she should be at home with her own family?

‘Fran, can I talk to you?’ I say.

‘Yes. Of course.’ Fran starts to stand as I gesture with my head towards the back door.

‘Oh, you can speak freely in front of me,’ Ruth says, as she loads a tray into the oven.

‘It’s family stuff,’ Fran says, snatching up the cigarette from the table, and we step out into the damp, drizzly rain.