I walk across the carpeted landing, which is decorated with framed pictures of Ed alongside people who I assume are famous, judging from their attire, but whom I do not recognise. The bathroom, at the far end of the hall, is half tiled, half painted. It has a sterile feel. A bath fills one corner of the room, and a luxurious shower with body jets occupies another wall.

After relieving myself, and having washed my hands, I glance in the mirror of the cabinet above the sink and re-tie my hair into a ponytail. When I’m done, I notice that the cabinet is padlocked. I pull the padlock which results in a loud clanking of metal on metal, but the cabinet remains firmly shut. I wonder why anyone would lock their own bathroom cabinet. I’d get it if it was lower to the ground and there were children roaming about, but a single man locking a bathroom cabinet seems suspicious.

I take my phone out and snap a picture of the rectangular box on the wall. I slip my phone back into my pocket and leave the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

On the way back towards the stairs, I notice one of the doors is slightly ajar. The drone of conversation drifts up the stairs, though I still peer over the banister to make sure no one is in the hall below, before pushing the door gently.

The hinges emit a squeak that seems to echo around the house and I curse under my breath. The murmurs from downstairs cease and I stand unmoving, as still as a statue, waiting for something to happen.

After a few seconds which seem like a lifetime, the talking resumes and I exhale, realising I’d been holding my breath. I poke my head around the door and survey the scene. The bedroom of the bachelor is not what I’d expected at all; the room would not look out of place in a five-star hotel.

The bed is covered in pristine white sheets, immaculately made without a single fold in the material. A comfortable fabric sofa rests against a wall. A small round table sits beside it with a closed laptop and a notebook perched atop. Shirtsleeves spill out of the mahogany wardrobe’s slightly opened doors and a range of moisturisers and aftershaves rest upon a set of matching drawers.

I’m about to leave when I spot something that appears massively out of the ordinary for such a carefully decorated room. A plastic mannequin head lies on its side on the floor, as if it has fallen off the nearby bedside table. Soulless eyes stare in my direction, and I can barely contain a chuckle at the deep red lipstick and slanted eyebrows that have been drawn on, giving it an angry countenance.

My mind runs wild thinking about the possible explanations as to why the head is in the house at all, let alone in his bedroom. Perhaps it’s what he uses to test and perfect his make-up skills on, given what we’ve just learned about his previous occupation. Perhaps it’s something a little more… perverse?