Last time this happened the parents arrived three days later, their faces bloated with misery, clutching a small bouquet of pink and white roses, neat and tasteful, that they wanted to lay at the end of the platform. They were accompanied by their police Family Liaison Officer, an inexperienced woman PC who hadn’t done a rail death before. Melissa had to take the three of them into her small office where there wasn’t even room for them all to sit down. They managed to squeeze in one extra chair so the mum and dad could both sit, then Melissa perched on the edge of her desk while the FLO leaned against the door. The FLO did the talking while the parents nodded in agreement. They all understood there were issues, the FLO said. They didn’t want to be ostentatious – no sprawling wreath, no fluffy toys or notes – they just wanted to pay their respects to the spot where their daughter had died.

Melissa waited until the FLO had finished and then said quietly and calmly that she was very sorry but it was out of the question. Any kind of tribute, even laying flowers on the platform, was impossible, because of the risk of copycat incidents. ‘Even the press have to be careful, in the way they report,’ she said. ‘We’re always on to them to be sensitive. And TV programmes too, dramas and so on. There’s guidelines. I’m terribly sorry.’ She did not add that she was furious with the FLO for not contacting her about it first, for misleading the mum and dad about what might be possible.

It was a painful conversation. The parents made it worse by understanding, nodding slowly, the agony etched on their motionless faces. ‘Of course …’ said the dad in a hoarse whisper, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. ‘Of course. Yes. We understand.’ The FLO stared balefully at Melissa over their heads.

And afterwards, as if it wasn’t terrible enough for them already, the couple had to leave the station still clutching the bouquet. After they had gone, Melissa couldn’t stop thinking about what they would do with it when they got home, whether they would put the flowers in a vase or throw them in the bin. She worried for a long time that she should have come up with a compromise – leaving them on the Information desk, perhaps, somewhere where it would be okay, normal, to have flowers.

I had a mum and a dad. They came to the station.

Melissa smooths her hair, lifts her ponytail free of her jacket, sighs, braces herself to go out into the cold. That one was unusual, a young woman, same age as herself. She’s really hoping this man fits a more average demographic. It’s sad but the older men, well, they often don’t have anybody. Often, nobody comes.