Mr Doherty nodded and his lower lip jutted out.

‘In your professional capacity, how long did you know him, Mr Doherty? I gather he no longer works here?’

‘No. He was here for six years. He joined the firm in 2014 and was our top agent for five of those years. He became a partner at the end of his first year.’

‘A form of golden handcuffs to keep him chained to the firm?’

‘Exactly. He was everything you’d want in an employee. Never off sick. Never late. Smashed his sales targets month in, month out. We were perceived as being that good at selling houses quickly that we drew business away from the other agents on Allerton Road.’

‘That gives me a clear idea about what he was like as an estate agent. What was he like as a man?’

‘He was kind without being soft, and genuinely courteous. People used to take their work and domestic problems to him because he was discreet and offered good advice all round. Most of the girls in the office had a crush on him but he was above all that. He was extremely happily married to Sarah. They were culture vultures, always visiting art galleries, watching world cinema, reading quality literature and going to Europe to soak up the art and culture of the past. Until it all went horribly wrong for them.’

‘Have you got a picture of Richard?’

Mr Doherty opened the top drawer of his desk and, reaching inside, took out a framed photograph, which he offered to Cole. He took the picture from his hands and turned it over.

In between Mr Doherty and the beautiful blonde he’d seen on Google Images was a slim, handsome man with jet-black collar-length hair and sky-blue eyes, who smiled into the camera as he clutched a cut-glass statuette.

‘That’s when he won North West Estate Agent of the year, back in 2017. That’s me, obviously. The woman next to him was his wife, Sarah.’

‘Was?’

‘They were in Florence. They’d spent the day visiting art galleries. It had been particularly hot. It was in the evening. They were in a pizzeria near The Fountain of Neptune. They’d just ordered when Sarah went to the ladies. Five, ten minutes went by. Richard thought she’d been taken ill. He asked a waitress to go into the ladies to see if Sarah was OK. The waitress went in. The screaming brought the restaurant down into a terrible silence. Richard ran into the ladies and Sarah was lying in an expanding pool of blood. There were over thirty stab wounds to her body. There was an open window. The killer escaped the same way that he got into the building. There were no witnesses.’

‘Was the killer mentally ill?’