Sorrel doesn’t reply to any of the questions. Her thumb is in her mouth and her eyes are full of tears. After a few minutes, Grace steps forward and picks her up.

Then it’s Izzy’s turn. She sits down and smiles at Donna. Donna smiles back, a little uncertainly.

‘So you stayed last night, Isabelle?’

‘Yes.’ Izzy sounds a little bored. Perhaps that’s the way to deal with the police. Izzy might be clever, cleverer than Grace has given her credit for.

‘I gather you live fairly close by; I can’t help wondering why you didn’t just go home after the party?’

‘Dad was drunk.’

‘Right.’ Donna scrawls rapidly in her notebook and looks up again. ‘Did you hear anything in the night?’

Izzy stares at her.

‘So you slept through until Poppy’s mother called upstairs?’ There’s a hint of impatience in Donna’s tone.

Izzy shakes her head. ‘Dad’s car woke me earlier so I went downstairs to do homework.’

‘You’re an early bird then, like me?’

Izzy shrugs. ‘I had homework to finish, it was too noisy the night before.’

‘Was that because Ash was making a noise?’

‘The grown-ups were dancing; the music was really loud.’

Donna writes fast. She is getting the story she needs, fitting the fragments together, like the first pieces of a jigsaw which are always the easiest to place.

‘What’s Izzy up to?’ Martin whispers to Grace, his eyes on Izzy. Grace glances at Melissa; her legs are twisted around each other, she is picking at her cuticles as she watches her daughter. She and Melly were the only ones who weren’t here last night. Melly must have thought, as she had, that the children had been working, at least for part of the time.

‘Saying what happened, I suppose,’ she snaps.

‘She’s making it sound worse than it was. There was music playing in the background and some dancing, not that much.’

‘And drinking,’ Grace mutters. ‘Paul was obviously plastered.’

‘Thanks, Isabelle, let’s take a little break now.’ Donna signals to her colleagues and they leave the room.

‘I’ll make something for the kids. Sandwiches will have to do.’ Martin takes a knife from the block, pulls bread from the bin and peanut butter from the cupboard. He seems to know the kitchen well, but then it would be natural to help if he arrived early with the kids on a Sunday morning and Eve was busy getting ready. How foolish to let that niggling worry about Eve, about Martin and Eve, get the upper hand, especially now.

She glances at her watch. How much longer will they have to wait to hear anything?

Sorrel is tugging at her hand; the little girl is trembling. ‘I want Mummy,’ she says.