‘You can do anything you like, Ms Wharton. We’re not arresting you.’

I followed them through the house. I stood, helpless, while Caleb was pushed into the back seat of a police car. ‘Mum. I’m being arrested,’ he said, as if I might not have noticed, or words could make it more real.

‘Don’t speak until your lawyer gets there.’

He looked worried. ‘The garbage goes out on Wednesdays,’ he reminded me. ‘Don’t forget to lock the kitchen door.’

When had he become so sensible?

Milla drove them off, leaving me. Sadie and the rest of her pack followed. Through her curtains, Rosie watched my nightmare.

I’d known he might be arrested but it was still a terrible, shocking thing, like a child’s first experience of death. Walking inside, I rang Douglas.

His secretary answered. ‘Mr Anderson is in court but can be passed a message.’

Lawyers might control a crisis in your life, but to them, you’re simply one of many clients. Genevieve and Stephen were the same. By the time Douglas called back, I was frantic. ‘Caleb’s been arrested!’

‘Did you hear the charges?’ he asked. ‘Do you understand?’

Anger rippled through me. ‘Not like a lawyer would.’

Douglas said he’d heard Penelope was speaking with the police that day and that he’d go to Caleb. I rang Stephen to explain, and tried to sound rational.

‘I’ll call contacts at the DPP to see what I can find out,’ he promised.

In my imagination, Stephen made that phone call, and this was all fixed. But my imagination was not to be trusted. It taunted me. While I waited for him to call back, I drove to Brunton Police Station. Now my mind conjured Caleb in a room of concrete, like the base of a skateboard rink, with window bars and a heavy lock. Caleb hated being locked in his bedroom.

Stephen returned my call as I neared Brunton. He had no more specific details but said the arrest would follow a normal course.

‘Normal!’ I repeated, shocked. ‘What is normal?’

‘First, there’ll be a court appearance tomorrow. Later, a committal hearing where a magistrate decides if there’s enough evidence to go to trial.’

‘So this can be the end of things?’ My head ached.

Stephen spoke slowly, like I was a young student. ‘If the evidence is weak.’

I had once imagined hope as a flame, growing. A memory nearly overwhelmed me. Caleb’s arrest was a crisis like the PAN when Jack’s engine was nearly engulfed by fire. I wasn’t sure how it could be survived. That image was lost to me now. ‘The evidence is weak,’ I insisted. ‘It has to be. Caleb didn’t do it.’

‘We’ll know more after the hearing.’ He sounded impersonal, like Caleb was no more than a client. Ironic, given how little he did to help.