Checking that Martin isn’t watching me, I slip the card out of its holdings and take a peek inside. It is addressed to Ed’s mum and underneath the generic, mass printed happy birthday message, Ed has signed his name.

The calligraphy is familiar, though I can’t place it. It looks like it has been scrawled quickly and is written in capitals. I snap a photograph of it on my phone, and then leave the kitchen and catch up with Liam, who has one foot on the first stair.

The door squeaks as I push it open, revealing Ed’s bedroom. It’s as it was before, though now I notice some blood on the duvet cover; perhaps this is where he was hiding when he was found.

We have a poke around, but there is not much else to be found in here. I note that the mannequin head is no longer lying on the floor, but standing upright on the bedside cabinet. The face has had a makeover and no longer appears angry. The eyebrows are angled and the lip-sticked mouth now resembles a shocked face.

Fully aware that the crime scene photographer will have taken pictures of every room from every conceivable angle, I still slip out my phone and take a few photos for my own edification. With one last glance, I pull the door closed again and join Liam in the bathroom.

There are drops of blood on the floor and the smear of a bloody handprint on the side of the bath. I can’t help but think of Psycho, especially with the way the shower curtain is hanging. The cabinet above the sink diverts my attention from the bath. The mirrored cabinet has been unlocked; the small, metal lock sits on the sink in a small pool of residual water. The door is ajar and, flying in the face of Martin’s rule, I pull it open, expecting to find bags of white powder or worse.

However, there are no illegal substances to be found. A few over-the-counter tablet packets lie on their sides. One open packet in particular catches my eye, as it has a sticker across the front. It doesn’t have a name, but it does have this address and the prescriptive instructions for the medication.

I take my phone out and snap a picture of the box, focussing on the name of the tablets, Promethazine (Phenergan). The instructions are thorough and I realise from the label that they must be professionally prescribed and very powerful.

I remember my mum saying that the more names a medicine has, the worse the illness must be. I slip my phone back into my pocket and leave the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

As I close the door, I can feel my phone vibrate. Angela’s name flashes on the screen and as I put the phone to my ear, it slips from my hand and drops to the floor.

Luckily, the thick carpet absorbs the impact and when I pick it up, it is still ringing. Ignoring the annoyed look from one of the forensic technicians, I carefully accept the call and press it to my ear.