Tom and I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in the living room. ‘What must the neighbours be thinking?’ I say, standing at the window and sipping a decaf tea. I think of elderly Jack and Brenda next door. A hedge obscures their property from ours, but she’s definitely the curtain-twitcher type, and when Clive put in the plans for the kitchen extension they opposed them.

A small crowd has gathered at the end of our driveway, only partly hidden by the police vehicles.

‘I bet they’re journalists,’ says Tom, over my shoulder, his fingers clasping a mug. ‘You might want to ring your dad and get some advice.’

My dad is the chief reporter on one of the national tabloids. I nod grimly. I feel as exposed as if someone has ripped the roof right off our house. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I mutter. For once Tom doesn’t offer any assurance. Instead his face is grave, a muscle throbbing near his jawline as he stares out of the window, sipping his coffee in silence.

I ring Dad later to ask his advice. ‘You don’t fancy giving your old dad an exclusive,’ he deadpans.

I laugh. ‘I don’t know anything! It might turn out to be hundreds of years old yet.’

‘Well, if it’s not I should warn you, as soon as the police confirm a crime and have identified the body, you’ll be swamped by press.’

‘Should we move out?’ Although as I say this I have no idea where we’d actually go. We can’t afford a hotel. I wish Dad lived closer. Or Mum, but she’s even further away.

‘No. No, don’t do that. Just be prepared, that’s all. And if you need anything – information or advice – let me know.’ I can tell he’s in the newsroom by the sound of phones ringing in the background and the general hubbub of conversation and activity.

‘Will you be sending someone down here?’

‘I expect we’ll use a press agency for now. But if you’re going to talk to the press, remember me, yeah? Seriously, Saff, if you’re unsure about anything – whether it’s the police or the reporters – then come to me first.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, feeling reassured. My dad has always had the ability to make me feel safe.

The next morning the police take down the tent and crime tape and Tom and I stare in horror at the huge hole left in the garden. It’s four times bigger than it was when the builders left it. Tom asks his boss if he can work from home for a few days, and we spend them trying to avoid the smattering of journalists that still hover.

And then, on Wednesday – the day Tom returns to work – the police call.