Because she was going to tell the police now. It made her ill, the idea that Robin, father to her son, might actually have gone to the lengths of scraping up dog shit, forcing it into an envelope, posting it through the door . . . And Zeb was living with him, being influenced by him. Just as Robin had clearly been influenced by Andy’s approach to intimidation all those years ago.

She tried to busy herself by checking through the post and emails she’d left neglected for the last four days. But it was just bills that would plunge her into her overdraft, an email from her real estate agent asking whether she wanted to relist her shop for sale, and an invitation to a job interview—depressingly, at the shop where she’d been working when she’d first entertained the idea of buying her own. Emma didn’t have the headspace for any of it. She buried her laptop under a pile of scarves as if it had offended her as much as the dog dirt.

The next time a police car pulled up, she peeked out of her window. Two officers in uniform got out and went to address the mob of journalists. Emma wondered whether any of the reporters had witnessed the horrible delivery. An argument seemed to bubble up; one of the PCs stayed out on the pavement while the other came into the building, irritation scrunching his face.

Before she could change her mind, Emma stepped out of her flat.

The PC was in the foyer murmuring into his radio. Emma hovered awkwardly, glancing up the stairs toward the Harlows’ door. When he slipped the radio back into his belt, she found her voice: “Excuse me, could I ask your advice?”

He looked preoccupied, but not unfriendly, sweat glistening beneath the brim of his hat.

“I . . . I need to report some potentially threatening mail I’ve been getting. And . . . other things too. Phone calls . . .” She thought of what Steph had said about their doorstep being egged a fortnight ago. “Vandalism . . .”

She had his attention now. “Is this related to Freya Harlow?”

“I don’t think so. Not exactly.” Emma watched for a reaction, convinced the interest had slipped from his face. “I can’t be sure, but I think it’s . . . my son’s dad. We have a difficult history and I think he’s trying to unsettle me, or punish me. I know you might not be the right person to tell, and the last thing I want is to detract from the investigation . . .”

He looked thoughtful. Emma worried that he was going to fob her off, send her away, and perhaps rightly so. But he reached into his coat and brought out a notebook. “Can you say more about this mail you’ve been getting?”