‘I’m more concerned about who he’s working for. He wouldn’t tell me what kind of information Gran is supposed to have.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know, it just feels like it’s snowballing. Something bigger is going on here. Are we just blundering on, getting ourselves deeper in the shit without knowing the full picture? And now Mum has gone tearing off to fucking Broadstairs to meet a man who may or may not be the real Alan Hartall and I haven’t heard from her, and our back garden is a crime scene – and don’t get me started on those journalists. I can’t step out of the front door without being accosted. I feel like I’m under house arrest!’ I’m out of breath after my rant and sink onto the sofa next to him, my head in my hands, my shoulders shuddering. ‘I wish we’d stayed in Croydon,’ I say, through my fingers, tears falling down my cheeks and plopping onto my jeans. ‘I’m sick of it all, Tom. This was supposed to be a new start for us. For the baby . . . I don’t even want to go in the little bedroom any more knowing it looks out onto the garden. Seeing that hole where those bodies were . . .’

Tom pulls me against him, the cool leather of his jacket pressing against my cheek. ‘I’m going to take a sickie tomorrow. I’m not leaving you here alone.’

I sit up in shock. Tom has never once taken a day off work sick. Not even when he had food poisoning and had to take a sick bag on the Tube with him.

‘Tom, you can’t . . .’

‘I think I’m owed it, don’t you? And I don’t want you to be alone tomorrow. I can get on with decorating. And I’ll call the builders, find out when they can come back and continue the build. If they mess us around again, we’ll get someone else. Then we won’t have to look at the hole any more.’

‘Mum should be back . . .’ The thought of Mum makes me feel queasy with worry again. ‘What time is it?’

Tom checks his watch. ‘Just gone eight thirty.’ He stands up, shrugging off his jacket. ‘It’s not like Lorna to forget to call, is it? She’s usually always attached to that phone.’

‘I know,’ I say, picking up my mobile and trying her number again.

It goes straight to voicemail.

By ten o’clock she’s still not home.

Every time I hear a car, which isn’t often, I run to the window, hoping it’s a taxi, but nothing.

‘Do you think I should call the police?’ I say to Tom, who’s sitting in front of the television watching The Wire on box set, although neither of us can concentrate.