Management didn’t know she’d done anything wrong. To her colleagues and bosses, her client had committed suicide, which was a pain in the arse and would involve months of scrutiny on every level, but was nothing unusual. She’d been doxed and trolled, which was shitty, but not her fault. And she’d have to prove she didn’t shag Macdowall, but she reckoned she could do that – maybe using the location device on her laptop or phone, or something, or asking Holly to make a statement. There had to be a way.

As for Jack, Mary needed time to think up a more believable story than the truth. The bosses had dealt with this kind of thing many times. Last year Alice Belmont’s son killed his mate after a drunken game of quoits turned nasty. Alice, a children-and-families social worker, was restricted from all information pertaining to her son, but otherwise she was unscathed. She took the last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out.

The automatic doors opened. ‘Hi Nel,’ she said to the receptionist.

Nel was on the phone and gave a weak wave.

In the waiting room, there were two Mental Mothers – one shaking, one crying – with their three Kids at Risk.

‘Hey gorgeous!’ Mary said to Kid at Risk One, whose name was either Chloe or Zoe.

‘I have juice,’ Kid at Risk One said, and Mary was excited too. Chloe or Zoe didn’t often get juice.

Beside Mental Mother One was an out-of-place thirty-something man – interpreter, Polish, probably, as the Poles were the only migrants to have willingly settled in the area since 1900. Opposite him, a middle-aged woman grasped her designer bag (divorce, drink driving). An elderly heroin-user rocked on the seat next to her. (All heroin-users were elderly. This one deserved an award for still being alive.) Mary smiled at the Heroin-User, the lowest of the low, or almost. Junkie: an unspeakably dirty word.

Mr Angry in the corner was seething cos he had to come to this fucking place. I hate you, he was saying to Mary with his whole face, and Mary’s whole face was saying: Not as much as I hate you.

And there was a guy in the telephone-box-sized room next to Nel. He’d been put there for safety reasons. Everyone knew this was the equivalent of the naughty step; that he was either a paedophile or a rapist. Rapist, Mary had decided straight away. He almost filled the entire booth and looked rapey as fuck. The glass had fogged up and he’d drawn a love heart on the steamy window, making Kids at Risk One and Three cry.