‘Right, lads. Just have a look round. Mr Atkinson claims that five cases were delivered here and that Mrs Atkinson has kept one of them – a holdall. Inside were some papers and some kind of a diary. So that’s what we’re looking for.’

Three of the officers have a look round and the other one lingers. DS Percy continues.

‘Oh. Right. Can we have your computer please, Caroline?’

I pass my laptop.

‘I just use it to …’ I let my eyes wander over the boxes. ‘And Facebook. You should be able to get right in; it remembers the passwords. There’s some work stuff on there too.’

DS Percy stares at me.

‘I’m sorry about this, Caroline. You do understand why I have to …? Anyway, Gary, we’re looking for a fake Facebook account. Mr Atkinson claims that Mrs Atkinson is harassing him via a fake Facebook account in the name of Monica Bradley, somehow linked to this lost holdall.’ I can hear the sarcasm in her voice and I watch as her eyebrows rise as she speaks. ‘But he hasn’t said how it’s linked. He’s shown me the shared content, some photographs, but it’s not clear where they fit in. Anyway …’

You haven’t told her what’s in the journal. You’ve held back, hoping that they’ll find something here and you won’t have to explain how you are so disturbed that you collect sexual memorabilia and mark your conquests out of ten.

Gary takes the laptop and leaves, telling me he’ll bring it back as soon as he’s finished and that he’ll check my phone records if that’s OK. It is. There’s nothing to hide. Nothing at all. Not there, anyway.

I make a cup of tea and watch as the other officer pulls out boxes. The dust particles sail through the sunbeams that filter through my stained-glass wind chimes and I’m transfixed. The more they move, the thicker the stream of crap that sails around, settling somewhere else.

I suddenly snap out of it as I hear a door handle turn and the dull thud of a body against a locked door. And again. Footsteps on the stairs and DS Percy appears with Lewis.

‘Rooms upstairs. Both locked.’

He’s blank. He hasn’t read my file. He doesn’t know what I’ve been through. How did I not think about this? That they’d want to look in there? DS Percy nods.

‘OK. OK. Right. So, is that OK, Caroline? Only we have to …’

I feel sick. This can’t be happening.

‘There’s nothing in there.’

Nothing except all my memories of my children. I don’t want the dust in there disturbed, flying through the air, changing things. She draws a chair close.