She reads through some papers and then closes the file. She slides across a transcript of what Laura said to her teacher and her eyes tell me not to say a word. I read it and tears prick my eyes. It starts with some minor complaining about one of her friends and ends with, ‘I just miss my mummy.’

I stare at the precious words. I always knew it. I always knew that she wouldn’t forget me. I eventually slide the paper back.

‘I understand.’

She rises and it’s my signal to leave. She walks me along the corridor and I wonder for a moment if it’s just a strategy to allow Jack to leave without me having a go. But as we get to the doorway she pulls me to one side.

‘I just wanted to say, nice work.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The Facebook posts. Honestly, off the record, any one of us could have done that in the same situation. But he really is a #cheatingbastard of the highest rank. You’re well rid of him. Nice work, marine.’

She salutes, turns and walks down the corridor.

Chapter Forty-two

I’m going to see my children. I’m going to see them. This is real. They’re coming back.

I sit on the wall outside social services and assess if anything else can possibly go wrong. I don’t think it can. I’m just going to move forward now and accept what has happened. Mrs Porter’s right, I am well rid of Jack. He looked wounded in there. As if someone had taken away his favourite toy. But I don’t care now.

I can’t face going home yet so I go back to work and spend the rest of the afternoon on damage limitation. I Google myself and the Peter Daubney case and resist the temptation to make another file of evidence that I will take home, throw on the floor and never look at again.

I check Twitter and the #cheatingbastard hashtag is still going strong. It’s assumed a life of its own, with thousands of spurned lovers using it as a therapeutic tool to spill their emotional guts all over social networking. The Facebook threads have disappeared so I make a start on my Facebook messages on my own account and I push on the cheating bastard playlist for the last time. Lucinda Williams rasps ‘Changed the Locks’, and I smile to myself. Yes. Yes. I’ve unfucked myself. Well and truly unfucked.

Plenty of people apologising for doubting me. Some mutual friends telling me they always knew. A few angry messages and about twenty-five messages from men wanting to take me out.