I thought of what Karen had said the night before. Martha. Bringing it up after all these years. The memories gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What did she mean, saying that?

I looked at the clock on the wall. Already five. I had to get the kids home, feed them, soothe them somehow, keep them on the rails. Cassie had her exams. Benji had SATs and football try-outs and God knows what else. It seemed never-ending, the hoops they had to jump through. And another worry was nagging at me – I had to speak to their schools and Mike’s firm. If he got suspended, what did that mean for his salary? The money I brought in barely covered food for the month.

‘Come on, guys, we should go.’

‘We can’t leave Dad here by himself!’ Benji’s voice was thick with tears.

‘He doesn’t know we’re here, sweetheart.’

‘You don’t know that. I saw a programme where people were in comas and they could hear voices and they knew you were there and everything.’

I put my hand on his head, the springy soft hair that was so hard to brush. ‘Maybe he can, darling, you’re right. But he’d want us to go home and have dinner and do homework. You know he would.’

‘Mrs Morris. Hello Cassie, Benji.’ It was DC Adam Devine, sounding genial and relaxed. Benji brightened to see him; he thought being a policeman was cool, like in Kindergarten Cop. Catching the bad guys, keeping us safe. But who was the bad guy in this case? Benji’s father?

Adam met my eyes and a chill went through me – what now? Could there be anything else he had to tell me? Surely we were at rock bottom now? ‘Cass, will you take Benj to the snack bar?’

‘Can I get cake?’ said Benji. Cassie scowled. She felt her brother was getting too fat.

‘Of course, baby.’ I fumbled a tenner into Cassie’s hand, pleading with my eyes. Please. Don’t judge me. Cut me some slack.

DC Devine watched them go, then looked at me.

‘What is it?’ My voice was trapped in my throat, fluttering like the birds that sometimes got into our chimney.

‘We should sit down.’ He guided me to a rack of chairs at the end of the corridor, upholstered in pale green pleather. I wondered how much bad news had been delivered between these walls. I did as he asked, adopting the same straight-backed ready-for-a-job-interview stance I’d taken while speaking to Karen last night.

‘What is it?’

‘Jake Rampling’s bail hearing is tomorrow.’

‘Will they keep him in?’

He screwed up his face. ‘It depends. If they think he poses a danger, they might.’