Stan went back to sleep as I learned that either side of the windpipe are the carotid arteries, bringing blood from the heart to the brain, and that severing them is one of the most fatal head injuries known to man.

But no matter how many surgical websites I looked at, and no matter how many times I typed ‘cut throat’ into the search engine, I could find no weapon that looked remotely capable of doing the job.

In the end the search engine gave up on me, directing me to shaving websites where they sold foam, balm, gel and a variety of old-fashioned straight razors. They were interesting-looking blades, vicious enough to put a smile on Sweeney Todd’s face. But I couldn’t see how any of them could have cut deep enough to remove most of Hugo Buck’s throat.

At seven the sky finally started to lighten. I snapped shut the laptop as Scout appeared, padding into the kitchen still in her pyjamas and puffy with sleep.

Stan struggled down from my lap and flew at her. Our loft was huge. Far too big for a man, child and dog. Our family had grown smaller while the loft seemed to get bigger. Now we rattled around in all that empty space under the exposed wooden beams and brickwork, the dog’s paws skidding on the polished wooden floorboards as he chased towards Scout, sniffing and licking and nuzzling, clambering up her leg, crazy with love.

‘Stan was bad,’ she said, absent-mindedly scratching the top of his small head.

‘I know.’

‘On the sofa.’

‘I saw.’

‘And in the kitchen. And by the door.’ She thought about it. ‘Everywhere really.’

‘Mrs Murphy took care of it.’

‘I helped her.’

‘Thank you for that.’

A pause.

‘Do we have to give him back?’ she said.

I squatted down to be level with her head. Her light brown hair, her dark brown eyes, the sweeping curve of her face – they all came straight from her mother. Even her name was from a character in a book that my wife loved. My wife was gone, but every time I looked at my daughter, I saw her face.

‘This is our dog,’ I said, and found myself quoting Mrs Murphy. ‘It will all get better, OK?’

‘OK.’

We slipped into our breakfast routine. Toast for Scout. Porridge for me. Nature’s Menu dog food for Stan. After carrying her plate to the sink, Scout went off to brush her teeth. That had been one of her mother’s rules – teeth are brushed after the meal, not before, and we really did our best to stick to her rules.