I don’t always watch the television local news in the morning, but I had it on in the kitchen as I was getting my breakfast together on the Wednesday.

There was a report of a fire that had gutted a top-floor flat in Brunswick Square in Hove. One person was believed to have died.

They didn’t say it was Ingrid Richards’ flat. Perhaps the identity of the owner had not yet been confirmed.

But I kind of knew.

EIGHT

‘Meek’ was the word. Meek was how I would describe Edward Finch, particularly on second acquaintance. The idea of him as a murderer was totally incongruous.

He certainly didn’t mention it again and I wasn’t about to raise the subject. Even with the further detail provided by Cara Reece, I still didn’t believe his claim. But I was intrigued to find out why he had made it. The psychological effects of bereavement I find endlessly fascinating. And I thought, spending time with Edward sorting out his practical problem might enable me to find out what made him tick psychologically.

But working with him that morning I have to confess he didn’t have my full attention. Part of my mind was in Brunswick Square, waiting for the inevitable confirmation of the fire victim’s name.

I didn’t take anything from the Yeti into the bungalow with me when I arrived that morning. I hoped by the end of the session to be leaving with some of Pauline Finch’s clothes to take to a charity shop, but I didn’t want her widower to feel threatened by my coming in loaded with boxes and bin bags. Talk first, then action.

I suggested moving the boxes from the hall and he did not object. Indeed, he helped me fill the Yeti’s boot with them. It was just general household rubbish, destined for the dump. The hall was clear within ten minutes and then he offered me a coffee.

Edward went through the same ritual of making the drinks in the kitchen and we sat down in the sitting room to drink them. Someone – he, Cara? – had actually made an attempt at tidying there. The scattered books on the floor had been straightened up into piles. The magazines and the out-of-date newspapers had been removed. As I had thought on my previous visit, most of the bungalow’s rooms just needed a brisk tidy-up. It was in the bedroom at the back that the real problem lay.

I started by checking some of the basics. ‘Edward, how long ago is it that Pauline died?’ I always prefer the words ‘die’ and ‘death’ to any of the popular euphemisms. ‘Passed’, ‘passed away’ are just attempts to sanitize the reality.

‘Ten months,’ he replied.

‘And did you stop sleeping in the back bedroom immediately?’

‘Yes. There were too many memories. I couldn’t …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, apart from anything else.

‘I fully understand.’ I didn’t spell out how fully by mentioning Oliver’s death. It wasn’t appropriate. My grief was my own, not to be shared with strangers. If I got into a deeper relationship with a client, I might talk about it. Sometimes that had proved helpful in cases of bereavement. But my dealings with Edward Finch were at a very early stage.