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need a doctor. She just needs to bloody toughen up! Not put all this stress on her nan just to get her own way. It’s wicked, that’s what it is. It’s wicked. If she wants to start on anyone she should start on the horrible little gits doing the name-calling! Not her bloody grandmother – look at the state of her!’

      Mrs Hinchcliffe bit her lip and looked daggers at her husband. ‘Well, whatever the whys and wherefores,’ I said, realising that we could go on like this till midnight, ‘how about if I go up and see if I can persuade Imogen to talk to me. Would that be okay? And maybe coax her down, too. Then we can all have that cuppa.’

      Mrs Hinchcliffe had now pulled a hankie from her cardigan sleeve and blew into it delicately while her husband poured the tea. ‘You can try,’ she said. ‘No harm in trying. Though what good it’ll do I don’t know.’

      ‘Well, if not actually talk to me, at least listen to me,’ I said. ‘And if nothing else, I need to be able to get home at some point, don’t I? Or do you have the fire brigade on speed dial?’

      It took a second or two for Mr Hinchcliffe to get the joke.

Chapter 8

      ‘You were locked in their house?’ Mike spluttered, as I tried to explain where I’d got to. I’d called him too, but as my phone battery was almost dead to the world, it had been to tell him little more than that I was on my way. I pulled off my jacket and dumped my bag in the hall. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ he huffed. ‘What were the school thinking of, sending you there in the first place?’

      I couldn’t help but smile. Yes, it was almost seven, and I was normally home by five, but it was hardly the wee hours and this was hardly a huge drama. It was the home of a couple of pensioners and a slight teenage girl – hardly The Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Silence of the Lambs.

      I found myself smiling ruefully as I followed Mike through into the kitchen. Actually, on the silence front, there was a parallel.

      I’d gone upstairs, past a row of horticultural prints of various roses, to find myself on a small landing, crowded with small bits of dark wood furniture – a spindly chair; a semi-circular side table, topped with a vase of silk roses, themselves sitting on a small embroidered doilie; a wooden wall-mounted repository for a large thimble collection; and, over the banister rail, a pair of beige towels. Dust, I thought. A dust haven. It made me anxious just to look at it. When I was retired, I decided, I would have to live an ornament-free existence, just to stay on the right side of sane.

      The little landing was also crowded by some very busy floral wallpaper and punctuated by an assortment of panelled white doors. Following the instructions Mrs Hinchcliffe had given me, I knocked on the one to the left of the bathroom and, getting no response, turned the handle and went in.

      It was exactly as I’d expected, given the rest of the Hinchcliffes’ home. Prettily decorated and furnished, creamy floral curtains, a selection of cheerful pictures, sunny aspect … In fact, the perfect cosy guest bedroom, should that be what you were after. And, just as had been the case when I’d first seen Imogen’s clothes, nothing like a teenage girl’s bedroom at all. I winced to see there wasn’t so much as a duvet, let alone a funky duvet cover, much less any trace of the usual detritus such as hair straighteners, nail varnish bottles, discarded socks and bras.

      Imogen herself was sitting on the single bed, atop a quilted floral bedspread, head down, nose in a paperback book. She looked up, and, seeing me, her face took on that same closed expression that I had by now become so familiar with in school.

      ‘Hello,’ I said, to which she responded by putting the book down, uncrossing her legs and swinging them around and to the floor. She didn’t stand up, though, so I went and sat beside her.

      ‘Can we talk,’ I asked her gently, ‘about what’s troubling you?’

      I left it long enough to feel fairly sure she’d decided she didn’t want to communicate, then picked up the book to see what it was. It was from the school library, a book by Jacqueline Wilson, called Double Act, which I recognised immediately as being one of the set texts some of the year 8s were currently reading.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve read this one,’ I said, scanning the blurb on the back and flicking through a couple of pages. It seemed to be about twin sisters, Ruby and Garnet, whose mum had died – so a parallel with Imogen’s life right there. ‘It looks good,’ I said. ‘Are you enjoying it? I love Jacqueline Wilson’s books, don’t you? I think my daughter’s read almost every one she’s ever written.’

      Again, there was no response, so I put it down again, changing tack. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that was certainly some introduction to your voice, anyway, Imogen. I was so surprised I nearly lost mine, you know that? But I understand that perhaps you don’t want to talk to me today. I just came up to let you know that, well, that I’ve had a chat with your nan and grandad, and the one thing you need to know is that we’re all in this together. Imogen, sweetie, we all want to help you. That and the small matter,’ I continued, ‘that if I don’t get the front-door key I’m not going to get home, I won’t get any tea and, more importantly, I am going to miss EastEnders.’

      I was close enough to nudge her so I took a risk and did. ‘So can we resolve this particular conflict, do you think?’

      ‘So she gave it to you?’ asked Mike, when I’d finished relating everything to him. ‘Just like that?’

      ‘Just like that,’ I said, surveying the plate he placed in front of me and sniffing. ‘And don’t worry, no fishy business whatsoever.’

      Riley wafted into the living room, just as Mike was groaning at my lame joke. ‘Those fish fingers are gross, Mum. Just gross. God – and look at them! Dad, you’ve cremated them!’

      I was inclined to agree, bless him, but said nothing. I’d just kind of work my way around to them, via the mash and mushy peas.

      ‘But it’s still not on,’ Mike said. ‘Yes, it might have been okay on this occasion, but I’m not sure this business of you making home visits isn’t a bit above and beyond the call of duty.’

      ‘Love, it was my choice,’ I said. ‘They don’t make me do anything. But it’s part of my job to work with and support parents. And indeed grandparents. So I want to. Anyway, I’m glad I went. I feel I’ve learned so much more about everything now.’

      Which wasn’t strictly true – what the visit had mostly done was throw up more questions. But that was fine. It at least gave me something to work with. And I’d been particularly pleased that Imogen had so meekly given me the key as soon as I’d requested it. She clearly had a respect for authority, and, hopefully, me – and I knew that would help a great deal.

      ‘Even so,’ Mike persisted, ‘I still think it’s a bit much for an unaccompanied female to be visiting strangers’ homes in the evening. I know you see it as part of your job, all this “super-nanny” stuff, but it’s still risky, and at the very least you should keep your phone switched on, love – I must have tried you a dozen times. I didn’t know what to think!’

      I felt a bit bad about that. I wasn’t the best person to be left in charge of a mobile phone and I knew it. I was forever leaving it switched on in school and having it burst into song in meetings, or forgetting I’d switched it off and running around for hours after school was over, oblivious to the fact that people might be trying to get in touch with me, and, as for remembering to charge it at night, I was a lost cause.

      Riley laughed. ‘Didn’t know how to cook fish fingers, more like,’ she trilled, then skipped off into the hall with an ‘Out with David, home by ten!’, narrowly avoiding a flick across the back of the knees with Mike’s tea-towel.

      ‘That was absolutely delicious, love,’ I lied as I gave him the plate back. ‘So, Kieron, how was your second day?’

      My

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