I want to call Nick. I want him to get his colleagues to sweep the house and check for recording devices. I’m walking with my head down, concentrating on my mobile screen; the boys are either side of me. My finger hovers above Nick’s name. I’ve already called him out to check the house; he’s going to think I’m totally paranoid if I tell him why I want him this time. He might even believe I’m doing all this as an excuse to see him; it’s how his mind will work, I’m certain.

After waiting for Carl to leave the house in Bovey Tracey, I drove back home, dropping off Davina and parking up. Then I dashed to school on foot, with no time to go inside the house first. Now, with Leo and Finley in tow, I approach the front door. I give a cursory glance to the broken doorbell. From what I’ve seen today, I’m thinking maybe it was Carl who smashed it so that I wouldn’t find out he was bringing the same woman, or women, to my house. It certainly answers my question of why he was so adamant to keep hold of my house key. I’m awaiting my new SmartRing doorbell – Nick said he ordered one, but it seems to be taking an age to get here.

My anger has subsided a little, but only because it’s diluted with disbelief at Davina’s claims; my own suspicions. We’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion, adrenaline and hysteria overtaking all sensibility and reasoning. I hold on to that as I open the door. But, after getting the boys a drink and snack, I am compelled to search anyway, just in case. I go upstairs to my bedroom first, as this is the obvious place someone – some weirdo – would put a recording device. I check the lamps, light fitting and top of the wardrobe, then the picture frames.

‘Where the hell?’ Confused, I stand back from the wall. The boy-and-kitten picture is gone. My mind works overtime. Did Carl see us watching him today? Maybe he knows we’re onto him. He could’ve come here while I was picking the boys up and removed the picture because it was the one with a spy camera and he didn’t want to be caught out; didn’t want me to have physical evidence of what he’s been doing. It’s the only explanation, surely? Apart from complete paranoia. A breakdown.

I sit back on the bed. I need to think about this logically. Carl doesn’t have a key. No one but me has the keys. So, how could he, or anybody else, have got inside? I run downstairs and check the kitchen drawer. The spare key is still inside. No one has taken it.

I take a steadying breath.

Maybe Jo was right: the bloody house is haunted.