‘They think he got up in the night and followed the dog into the garden. The paddock gate is locked but he must have squeezed underneath.’ Melissa’s voice trembles. ‘He’s wandered off before, but never at night. Eve was hysterical. Eric tried mouth to mouth, the ambulance came in minutes. They took over. Eve went with him, Eric followed in the car. We haven’t heard anything since.’

In Charley’s biology book the lungs look like a sponge; if all those little holes were to fill up with water, how the hell would you ever get it out?

‘We’ll stay,’ Grace says. ‘We can help look after the girls.’

‘I’ll stay too but I have no idea why the police are still here.’ Melissa sounds bewildered.

In case his parents hurt him, Grace thinks but doesn’t say, then dumped him in the pond; it’s how they’ve been trained to think.

‘Can you assemble the children?’ Martin puts his head out of the kitchen doorway making them both jump. ‘The police want to talk to them; they’ve talked to Igor already. They told me they have to speak to everyone who was around last night; routine, apparently. It’s the children’s turn now. Eric consented by phone.’ He turns to Melissa. ‘Can you get Paul back? They’ll want to talk to him too as he stayed over. Information gathering, you know how they are.’

Melissa texts rapidly, a reply pings back. ‘He’s desperately sorry to hear what’s happened. He’s coming as soon as he can.’ Her face is tense with worry.

‘You mustn’t concern yourself.’ Martin pats Melissa’s shoulder. ‘The police ask everyone questions if there’s been an accident involving children.’

Grace reaches for his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she whispers, glad of his presence, taking care of everyone, being kind. He nods, preoccupied.

Poppy is sitting on the sofa with the policewoman who introduces herself as Donna. After name and age checks, Donna moves a little closer. She has a heart-shaped face, thick fair hair and a turned-up nose. Poppy inspects her carefully, she seems reassured. Donna is pretty, and pretty women are less threatening to children, though in fairy tales it’s the pretty ones who are dangerous: Snow White’s stepmother, Cruella, the Snow Queen. Grace catches Poppy’s eye and gives her a thumbs up.

‘So Poppy, did you hear anything unusual after you went upstairs last night?’

‘We were playing games; I probably wouldn’t have heard.’

‘What kind of games?’ She is trying to relax Poppy but her voice has a wheedling quality that a child might find irritating.

‘Just … you know,’ Poppy shrugs, glances at Izzy. ‘Games.’

‘And later?’

Poppy shrugs, shaking her head; her mouth tightens as if she is trying not to cry.

‘Thanks, Poppy.’ Donna smiles. ‘That’s all for now.’