The document inside isn’t very long, but it tells me everything I need to know: when the inquest hearing will be and where. It also reminds me to send over what information I can provide. The date is only a few weeks from now, far sooner than most inquests take place. Mike Bernard writes that Sarah’s case has been brought forward, a space opening up in the schedule because of delays in another, more complicated case. I stare at the details, the words blurring in front of my eyes. The inquest. The place where all kinds of questions are meant to get answered.

I think of everything people have told me about Sarah, all the pieces of the jigsaw I am trying so hard to fit together in my mind. The pieces are slippery too, though, with edges that slice at my fingers when I try to grasp them. I pull up all the notes I made before, the details and timeline I compiled for PC Delliers. I pull up a new Word document and place my hands on my keyboard, but I can’t seem to think of anything to write. She lied about her parents when they were dead the whole time. I had an email from her but I never kept in touch. She lay in that flat for ten whole months and not a single friend or family member came to her funeral. The picture these pieces are trying to make feels overwhelming. My brain jams, freezes. All I can do is stare at the blank page. I have to stop, pushing myself back from the desk, taking in gulps of air, my heart pummelling my ribs, skipping beats; my pulse is so irregular these days. I want to help, somehow tell Sarah’s story, find some kind of answer to make it all right. I’m trying so hard to tie everything together, but what have I got really? So many disjointed pieces of information. So many questions that still lead to blanks.

The blank page is waiting, the coroner’s court is waiting. It feels as though even Sarah is waiting.

But I have no idea what to say.

But then it is Wednesday. My afternoon off. My chance. The Tube from Brixton to Victoria, then the Gatwick Express that runs every fifteen minutes.

I’m so far into this now, there seems to be no way to turn back; even if there were, I don’t want to. I want to know. As I leave the office, one minute past twelve, I text Chloe to tell her I’m on my way. There’s no text in reply, but I didn’t expect one. If the timings are still right, she will be above me now, flying thousands of feet in the air.

I press on.