I have to be at West Hampstead police station at 1 p.m. It’s a thirty-minute walk from here to Wimbledon station then just under an hour to get to West Hampstead on the overland train. The thought of travelling on public transport makes me feel ill. I will be visible, exposed. Connor could be on that train with me, watching me, following me, and I would never know.

The best solution is to get a taxi. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I scroll through my phone for the Uber app that I haven’t used in months. Memories of Lottie and me, tipsily clambering into shared Uber rides, come flooding back. Lottie, merrily chatting away to the other passengers: ‘Hi, I’m Lottie and this is Nessa. What are your names? Are you going far?’

I smile, then a surge of sadness overcomes me. I miss her so much. I didn’t realize how much I needed her until it was too late.

I book the taxi and, leaving the phone charging in the socket by the bed, head across the landing to the bathroom. After a cool shower I feel almost human again. I wrap a large fluffy towel around me then head back to the bedroom. But as I reach the door I hear voices coming from Jack and Georgie’s room.

‘I don’t want to hear it, Jack.’

‘Well, you should. You’re part of this too.’

‘I’m part of it? You’re the one who’s behaving strangely.’

‘Says the woman who is now self-medicating because she’s worried about her sister. Christ, give me strength.’

I hear his footsteps thudding towards the door and I dart into my room, closing the door behind me.

I mull over their words in my head as I dry my hair, the familiar pang of guilt settling in my stomach. Jack sounded so angry, so fierce, not at all like the Jack I’ve known since I was a little girl, the calm, solid Jack we all depend upon.

This is my fault. I have brought all this to their doorstep and I’m ripping them apart. I had been tempted, when I got the call last night, to tell them what was happening, get them to contact Frank Solomon. But now, after hearing the argument, I am even more determined to do this alone. It’s not fair to drag Jack and Georgie in even further.

I finish off my hair as best I can, then hurriedly get dressed. It’s getting close to 10.15 now. The taxi will be here in five minutes. I dress soberly in black trousers, a cream linen blouse and flat, black loafers. I need to make a good impression, to appear responsible, professional and calm, which is difficult when I feel like I’m about to fall apart at any minute.