He slipped his phone into the pocket of his black hoodie and looked around his bedroom. The place didn’t feel the same; it was like it knew that his mum had gone. Grabbing a rucksack, he loaded his clothes into it and tried shoving his Xbox and some games on top, but they wouldn’t fit. The only other place there might be a bag he could use was his mum’s bedroom, so, with quivering legs, he closed his door behind him and went into the room next to his. Her single bed was still made and some dirty washing lay on the floor in the corner, next to the full laundry basket.

Rummaging through her wardrobe he found a small, brown fabric suitcase and pulled it out, dusting it off before getting out of the room as quickly as he could. It was as if he could feel her ghost in there.

He opened the tatty bag and loaded his console and games into it, as well as a pair of trainers, and a few tins of Stella he’d removed from the fridge. Unlike his nan, his mother hadn’t been a big drinker.

Next, he checked the jar on top of the fridge, which was meant to be full of savings so they could go on holiday, but never had more than a few quid in it at a time; with the rent, the food and the bills, his mum never had much left out of her pay packet.

Unscrewing the slightly sticky lid, he emptied the change into the palm of his hand and pocketed it, not bothering to count it, but guessing there wasn’t much more than ten pounds.

The police officers had asked for a picture of his mother so he didn’t have the horrible job of having to go and identify her. He’d managed to find an old photo album and had given them one of Janet looking younger, happier and healthier.

Before leaving the flat, Dean decided to return to the photo album and have a flick through. He’d never paid much attention to family photos before, as it had always been just the two of them. He’d hated having to admit to the police that he’d never met his father and that his mother had always told him she didn’t know where he was. He’d felt judged by them, even though they hadn’t said anything. Dean had never had any time for the police. They’d given him enough grief for him not to trust them. So what, if he liked smoking pot? So what, if he took a car once without asking? As far as he was concerned, the police were nothing more than pigs.