‘Well,’ Adana says, lowering her voice, ‘except for the whole disappearing-child thing.’

‘The what now?’ Liz asks.

I fill her in, repeating everything I’ve just told Adana.

‘Oh my God, I’d heard the story, but I had no idea they lived in Rowanbrook. Jesus.’

‘Same,’ I tell her. ‘Actually, Liz, you’re an estate agent, right?’

‘Part-time now, but yes,’ Liz says.

‘Shouldn’t our estate agent have told us the house had a history?’

Liz scrunches up her face and nods in a way that says in theory, yes.

‘Legally?’ I ask.

‘No, not legally. Ethically, yes. We would always tell. There’s no point in having a sale fall through at the last minute because someone finds out there’s been, say, a violent death.’

Adana must see the worry in my face. She touches my arm. ‘Look, all houses have a history and often we just don’t know about it. It’ll be fine.’

I nod with a certainty I don’t feel. ‘It’ll have to be! And look, it’s still the perfect house for us, nothing changes that.’ Even as I say it, I know it’s not true. The creeping unease I’ve been feeling since last night is spreading.

Any response Adana has is swallowed up by a bubble of noise bursting across the school yard, as kids pour through the doors. Ben bounces over, leaning his blond head in for a kiss. Emily follows shortly behind, dark ponytail bobbing. No kiss, and I know better than to try.

‘Mum, I’m walking home with the girls, ’K?’ Emily says, turning away before I can answer.

‘See you at home, cross at the lights!’ I call after her.

‘When can I walk home on my own?’ Ben asks.

‘When you’re Emily’s age.’

‘But I know the way, I’d be fine. It’s not like I’m going to get kidnapped or something.’

Adana raises her eyebrows. ‘Try telling that to Lily Murphy’s mother,’ she mutters under her breath. Then, louder: ‘Joanna, am I still calling in later for a cuppa?’

‘Definitely.’

At home, the house is stiflingly hot, with afternoon sun streaming through the narrow kitchen-diner windows. Somehow, despite this, the kitchen still feels bleak and austere and almost forbidding. Maybe it’s the colour on the walls – a deep pine green, so dark it’s almost black. The sooner we brighten this place up, the better, I think, moving towards the kitchen counter, where the kids are arguing over who can use the toaster first.

‘I’ll do the bagels, you guys go out and have a bounce on the trampoline,’ I tell them, wondering if it’s really awful that I want a bit of peace already, when we’re only in the door from school.

As soon as they’re outside, I haul the ancient sliding door shut and switch on the radio to catch the news. The heatwave permeates every headline – a possible hosepipe ban on the way, a drowning in a lake, and a gorse fire that spread to a farmhouse, killing its two occupants. Wincing, I switch off the radio and eye up the six unopened boxes by the kitchen-diner windows. But unpacking is unending, and my heart’s not in it today. Instead, I go back to my Mac.