With one last peek around the room, and one last curious glance at the mannequin head, I pull the door closed slowly, coughing to mask the screech before making my way downstairs.

‘We were about to send a search party!’ smirks Ed upon my reappearance.

‘Sorry, tummy problems…’ I reply, rubbing my stomach as if to emphasise the point. Ed looks suitably disgusted and does not offer any further remarks.

‘What’s with the lock on the bathroom cabinet?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.

‘My mother has been diagnosed with cancer recently,’ he says sadly, to which we offer our condolences. ‘I insist that she stays here at least once a week so that I can keep an eye on her and she keeps some of her medication in the cabinet. I can’t bear thinking about it, and every time I open the cabinet, it’s there, you know? So I lock it, and only open it when she’s here. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.’

His last sentence is barely audible and ends in a sob which gets caught in his throat. He tries to regain his composure, looking up at us with a smile, though his eyes appear slightly wet.

‘Ed, thank you so much for having us and for answering our questions. It has been very helpful. We just have one more, and then we’ll be out of your hair.’

Liam unzips the bag that has been lying at his feet and pulls out a manila folder. He leafs through the contents until he finds what he needs, removing a single sheet of paper and handing it to Ed. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

Ed studies the picture on the piece of paper before handing it back to Liam.

‘It’s the kid from the book event that gave Reuben shit, isn’t it? He had a hat on that night as I recall, I didn’t recognise him.’

‘Didn’t recognise him?’ I repeat. ‘Have you seen him before?’

He nods. ‘His hair is pretty recognisable, like that guitarist from Guns ‘N’ Roses. Yeah, he was the guy that Anna’s friend got off with in the bar in Altrincham, the night Anna was murdered.’

18

The Sat-Nav confirms that we have reached our destination. Liam pulls into a marked space at the side of the street and we exit the car, gazing at one of the buildings used to accommodate the students of Manchester University.

The ugly rectangular block stretches high into the cloudy sky, the grey concrete punctuated at regular intervals with small porthole-style windows. The street is quiet, the lashing rain discouraging any al fresco socialising.

With our jackets pulled over our heads, we run across the street and into the building, stopping at the reception desk, which is being manned by a portly security guard with wispy hair who watches the water dripping from our clothes onto the floor with a hint of displeasure. On his desk, a small, artificial Christmas tree with twinkling white, fibre optic lights attempts to inject some colour into the drab surroundings of the lobby.