In Charley’s biology book the lungs look like a sponge; if all those little holes were to fill up with water, how the hell would you ever get it out?

“We’ll stay,” Grace says. “We can help look after the girls.”

“I’ll stay too but I have no idea why the police are still here.” Melissa sounds bewildered.

In case his parents hurt him, Grace thinks but doesn’t say, then dumped him in the pond; it’s how they’ve been trained to think.

“Can you assemble the children?” Martin pokes his head out of the kitchen doorway, making them both jump. “The police want to talk to them; they’ve talked to Igor already. They told me they have to speak to everyone who was around last night; routine, apparently. It’s the children’s turn now. Eric consented by phone.” He turns to Melissa. “Can you get Paul back? They’ll want to talk to him too as he stayed over. Information gathering, you know how they are.”

Melissa texts rapidly, a reply pings back. “He’s desperately sorry to hear what’s happened. He’s coming as soon as he can.” Her face is tense with worry.

“You mustn’t concern yourself.” Martin pats Melissa’s shoulder. “The police ask everyone questions if there’s been an accident involving children.”

Grace reaches for his hand. “Thanks,” she whispers, glad of his presence, taking care of everyone, being kind. He nods, preoccupied.

Poppy is sitting on the sofa with the policewoman who introduces herself as Donna. After name and age checks, Donna moves a little closer. She has a heart-shaped face, thick fair hair, and a turned-up nose. Poppy inspects her carefully, she seems reassured. Donna is pretty, and pretty women are less threatening to children, though in fairy tales it’s the pretty ones who are dangerous: Snow White’s stepmother, Cruella, the Snow Queen. Grace catches Poppy’s eye and gives her a thumbs-up.

“So, Poppy, did you hear anything unusual after you went upstairs last night?”

“We were playing games; I probably wouldn’t have heard.”

“What kind of games?” She is trying to relax Poppy but her voice has a wheedling quality that a child might find irritating.

“Just . . . you know.” Poppy shrugs, glances at Izzy. “Games.”

“And later?”

Poppy shrugs, shaking her head; her mouth tightens as if she is trying not to cry.

“Thanks, Poppy.” Donna smiles. “That’s all for now.”

Sorrel doesn’t reply to any of the questions. Her thumb is in her mouth and her eyes are full of tears. After a few minutes, Grace steps forward and picks her up.

Then it’s Izzy’s turn. She sits down and smiles at Donna. Donna smiles back, a little uncertainly.

“So you stayed last night, Isabelle?”

“Yes.” Izzy sounds a little bored. Perhaps that’s the way to deal with the police. Izzy might be clever, cleverer than Grace has given her credit for.

“I gather you live fairly close by; I can’t help wondering why you didn’t just go home after the party?”

“Dad was drunk.”