‘Who’s Patrick?’ I asked.

‘Patrick? He’s my friend. His son owns the off-licence.’

I snorted. That made perfect sense. At least she was sober this morning, or not yet drunk enough to slur her words.

‘I need to have some company up here, Eve. It’s lonely.’

‘So, come home, Mum, back to Sutton.’ I didn’t want to be her carer, but if she was here I could support her recovery.

‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’

We didn’t speak for a few seconds, the silence stretching out between us.

‘Mum, do you think you would be able to send me some money, please?’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred pounds.’

‘What for?’

‘Council tax.’

‘Of course. I’ll write a cheque and put it in the post today, is that okay?’

I agreed and thanked her. Did people even use cheques any more? I wasn’t going to moan. I hated borrowing money, especially from her. When she got drunk, she would likely throw it back in my face. It was a double-edged sword, but it was the only option I had.

Back at the flat, I cleaned and hoovered, resisting the urge to go in to Ben’s room. It took all my willpower not to have a look around. I sat at the table dipping a digestive into my tea and pondering what to have for dinner when Detective Emmerson rang. I’d turned the volume up loud on my phone and when it went off, I almost hit the ceiling, spilling tea all over the kitchen table.

‘Hello Eve, it’s Detective Emmerson,’ she said, her voice already sounding grave.

I sank back into the chair, staring at the puddle of tea, awaiting the bad news. ‘Hello.’

‘I wanted to check in, see how you were doing?’

‘I’m okay. Have you any news?’ I wasn’t interested in niceties.

‘No, I’m afraid not, nothing new. We’ve visited all known local sex offenders, however none match the physical description you gave us. The ones we spoke to, their movements were all accounted for that morning. So, we’ve hit a bit of a dead end.’

‘Right.’ I wasn’t intending on make this call any easier for her or engaging in small talk. The silence grew between us until she spoke.

‘Statistics show that around eighty-five per cent of victims of sexual assault are known to their attackers. Looking at that, is there anyone you can think of we could talk to. Anyone at work?’

An icy feeling zigzagged its way across my back and I sat up straight. I didn’t know of anyone, did I? I thought of the men at Drive. Acquaintances, friends of friends.

‘No, I don’t think so.’