I’d imagined that my home would fall apart without me in it but somehow they’ve managed without me. It feels like for ever since I quizzed Jake in the garage about his relationship with Kira and he called me a control freak. I’ve been in control my whole life: of my family, of the office at work, of my mind. Over the last few months I’ve lost control of everything. There’s only one more decision I have control of – whether or not I tell the police about the knife.

The tote bag is just where I left it, buried in the corner of the wardrobe under a pile of winter jumpers. I peer inside, to check the knife is still there, then snatch up the bag and hurry back down the stairs. My mobile rings as I reach the kitchen but I don’t pause to answer it.

The ringing stops as I hurry out of the back door and sprint across the road to my car. My mobile starts up again as I open my handbag to retrieve the keys and I flip it open, certain I’ll see Mum, Jake or Mark flashing on the screen. Instead it says Withheld number. Probably someone wanting to check if I’ve reclaimed PPI or ever been injured in a road traffic accident. I move my finger towards the end-call button, then change my mind. It could be DS Forbes.

‘Hello?’

‘Claire, it’s Stephen. Please don’t put the phone down. Please! It’s urgent.’

Irritation rises in my chest. He withheld his number knowing I wouldn’t have answered a call from him. ‘Sorry. It’s not a good time.’

‘Caroline’s left me.’

‘What?’

‘I just got home and all her stuff is gone.’

‘Got home from where?’

‘I … I went out last night. Slept on a friend’s sofa. Please, Claire, I need your help.’

I stare out of the window, at the traffic rushing past my car and the neighbour three doors down struggling to pull her bin in from the street. I always knew that Stephen and Caroline’s marriage was shaky, what with the stress of IVF and everything, but I’d assumed they’d managed to put all that behind them once they’d decided to stop trying for a baby.

‘Please, Claire, she likes you. Would you ring her? Convince her to speak to me.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the right person.’

‘I can’t ask anyone else. I’m just … I can’t …’ His voice cracks and he bursts into tears.

As he sobs down the phone I look across at the tote bag on the passenger seat beside me. I feel sorry for Stephen, I really do, but I can’t put off going to the police. I’ve left it too long as it is.