When everything is back in its place I sit on the edge of the flower bed and call the police. DS Lorraine Percy. She answers on two rings.

‘DS Percy speaking. How can I help?’

She doesn’t know it yet, but she can help me a lot. She’s my communication route to you.

‘Oh. Right. This is Caroline Atkinson. I found a card behind my door when I got up this morning.’

‘Yes. Thanks for calling back. We had a report from your ex-husband that you had a holdall of his that was wrongly delivered.’

I sigh heavily for effect.

‘Mmm. His cases were delivered to my house. But I called the delivery company and they picked them up again. They did call back to check.’

‘So you haven’t got the holdall?’

‘No. Look, would you like to pop round and check? I’m not setting off for work for a while. I mean, after what happened before ...’

She pauses.

‘Yes. I’ve read your file. All right. I’ll pop round now, with a colleague.’

‘Thank you. I’ll put the kettle on.’

I end the call and go and clean my teeth. I think about the journal and that guy last night. I only remember snippets, but I’d arrived completely trashed at a local bar and he’d jumped at the chance. All politeness and paying for drinks, but his hands were everywhere. No. It wouldn’t have been like that for you. You would have been upfront about being married. You would have made them feel special, as if they were so fucking wonderful that you had cheated on your wife for them.

I hurry back downstairs when the doorbell rings. I look around at the boxes, looming over me, and smile. She’ll think I’m crazy. But everyone’s got to have a hobby, haven’t they? I let her in. She’s short and compact and stern-looking in her black trousers and jacket. She’s come alone.

From the first moment she steps into my hallway she’s shocked. A pile of Thomson Locals tip over at her feet and she looks to me for guidance. I show her through to the kitchen, where I’ve made a space amongst the section with all the small white goods. Toasters, bread makers, waffle irons. I don’t even like fucking waffles.

She opens her notebook.

‘Right then, Mrs Atkinson.’

She sounds bored, like this is just duty. I smile.

‘It’s Dr Atkinson, actually.’

‘OK, Dr Atkinson. As I said on the phone, your ex-husband has made a complaint that you have his property.’

I look around.

‘Please. Have a look. Whatever it is, it should be easy to spot in here. Unless it’s in an Amazon box.’

She doesn’t laugh. In fact, she looks horrified. She follows my gaze and frowns.

‘You can get help with this. You don’t have to live like this.’