‘Definitely sounds dodgy. Not sure what the coup is yet. If I hear more, I’ll let you know. Just wanted to give you the heads-up.’

‘Cheers, Louise. I really appreciate it.’

I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest, easing myself over sleeping children, pulling my cardigan on to go to find James. He was snoring on the studio sofa, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the floor, headphones beside it and an ashtray overflowing with spliff ends. No wonder he was having the nightmares again.

‘James.’ I shook him. ‘James, I need to pop out.’

‘What?’ He was groggy, hardly awake, his eyes closing again immediately.

‘Can you come into the house, please, James?’ I shook him gently. ‘I need you to listen out for the children. I’ve got to go out. Breaking news.’

I wanted to go before I had to explain, and dashed from the room as he started to sit up properly. ‘The kids won’t wake yet, I’m sure. I’ll be back,’ I called, as I heard him grumbling behind me. ‘Freddie’s milk is in the fridge if he does, though. You’ll have to warm it up in the microwave. Twenty-five seconds. Don’t nuke it.’

I pulled on my boots and fleece and ran to the car. I wasn’t sure how I would explain my presence; I wasn’t even sure why I was going, but going I was. At this moment my main concern was who the hell was dead.

Dawn was breaking over the empty brown fields as I drove through the lanes, suffusing the sky with an unearthly light. A small brown rabbit froze between hedgerows as I braked just in time. Rounding the bend in the drive, I saw two police cars and an ambulance parked at the foot of the front steps. The front door was ajar, a uniformed PC standing in the porch. I parked my car by the stable block and pulled on my woolly hat and gloves.

‘No press, love.’ The policeman stepped down a few stairs and blocked my path, his breath crystallising in the dawn air. It was absolutely freezing.

‘I’m not press, I’m a friend of the family. Who’s dead?’

‘I’m sure I recognise you.’ He cocked a sandy eyebrow at me. His nose was red and dripping from the cold.

‘I think my daughter goes to school with your son.’ I smiled as becomingly as was possible at 5.30 a.m. ‘Alicia Miller?’

‘St Erth’s? That might be it,’ he said comfortably. ‘Good school, that.’

‘So …’ I took a hopeful step round him.

‘You still can’t go in.’ He held an arm out. ‘The pathologist is doing his stuff.’

‘Who’s dead?’ I repeated urgently. A cockerel was crowing somewhere insistently, over and over again.

‘Not for me to say. No official identification as yet.’ He was implacable.