‘Pass me the cheese one. Since you whinged about the tuna yesterday,’ Robin mutters.

They sit down at Josie’s dining table; Robin takes a bite of the sandwich, while Freya pulls over the box of notebooks.

‘You found them,’ she says, rifling through. ‘What’s in there?’ she asks, pointing to the other box from the loft.

He drags it over. ‘Photo albums.’

Freya eagerly reaches forward, notebooks forgotten, grabbing an album from the top. She flicks quickly past the ones of Finn as a baby, then stops, a triumphant look on her face. She turns it round.

‘Oh, no,’ Robin groans. ‘What have I done?’

It’s a shot of two small boys: identical shorts, matching cheesy grins. One is taller and thinner, the other stocky, with a good distribution of puppy fat on his chubby cheeks.

‘That has to be you,’ Freya exclaims gleefully.

‘Yes,’ Robin says, resigned to his fate.

Freya keeps on looking through, occasionally giggling, a huge grin on her face. ‘Oh, this makes the breaking and entering worthwhile. Look at you!’ She laughs again, pointing to two small grinning faces poking out of carved holes in a big brown cardboard box.

‘Don’t mock our castle,’ Robin says. ‘That took us a whole afternoon.’

‘How old are you here?’

‘Oh, must have been… about five?’

‘So you and Finn really did grow up together?’

‘Yeah. Sometimes it was the three of us, see?’ He points to a shot of him and Finn, next to an older girl. ‘Until Georgia would get sick of us boys and find something else to do. We’ve always been close.’

Robin feels a flash of sadness, knowing that isn’t strictly true. Not of late. As adults, they’ve grown apart, and he wonders how he let that happen. He could blame their different careers, busy lives, his dislike for Sophie, but in reality it’s been a case of simply failing to prioritise the time to see his best friend. He makes a fresh resolve to help now; to do everything he can to get Finn out of this mess.

Freya has sensed Robin’s change of mood and has put the photo album down, turning to the red folder. She’s been filtering through idly with one hand, her half-chewed apple in the other, but now she puts it down, and carefully pulls an official-looking booklet out.

Finn’s school report. Dated October 1992 – their first half-term after Jacob’s accident. She passes it to Robin.

He flicks though. Attendance record, absence for the first three weeks. Scribbled handwriting from Finn’s teachers. A letter: referral to mental health services.

While Robin’s been reading, Freya’s continued looking through the folder.

‘Here, look at this,’ she says and hands him a piece of paper. An article, clearly torn out of a newspaper. He hands her the school report, then starts to read. SCOUT CAMP ENDS IN TRAGEDY, the headline shouts.