‘Exactly.’

He stood there, looking at me for a moment, and then said, ‘You’re a widow, aren’t you?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Cara told me.’

‘Oh yes.’ I’d forgotten I’d mentioned it, but now remembered her asking me. I’d thought it was rather a strange question at the time.

Edward continued to look at me. I felt slightly uncomfortable. Of what interest was my marital status – or lack of status – to him?

I moved almost brusquely through to the bathroom. ‘I’ll get that lot into the car. Then, when I get it home, I’ll check through the stuff that has a resale value and take it to a charity shop in Chichester. You still don’t want me to try to sell any of it for you?’

‘No, no,’ he assured me.

We were in the hall by now. ‘If you wouldn’t mind helping me, Edward, we’ll get this lot into the car.’

‘I wish you’d call me “Eddie”,’ he said, almost plaintively.

‘All right, Eddie.’ It seemed a small concession, given that I wasn’t anticipating ever meeting him again. ‘If you could just open the front door …’

The Yeti’s boot is surprisingly capacious, and we got all of the boxes in with no problem. When the job was done, he lingered by his black front gate.

‘I’ll send you an invoice,’ I said. ‘At the rates we agreed.’

‘Fine.’

‘And I’d like to say: “Congratulations, Eddie.” I know how hard it must’ve been for you to achieve what you have. And I hope that having made this enormous step will help you to come to terms with your loss.’

‘Oh, that’ll be all right,’ he said casually.

‘So,’ I stretched out my hand to take his, ‘good luck for the future.’

‘Thank you.’ He held my hand for a little longer than was necessary and seemed about to say something.

I didn’t give him the chance. Extracting my hand, I said goodbye and got into the Yeti.

As I drove off, he still stood by the front gate, looking at me strangely.

For some reason, I didn’t feel the appropriate sense of achievement. It should have been a case successfully concluded, an example of my skills as a declutterer helping a client come to terms with bereavement. But it didn’t feel like that.

For the first time in a while, I found myself remembering Edward Finch’s assertion that he had murdered his wife.

I didn’t feel comfortable, anyway. But that was probably because I was nervous about my forthcoming encounter with my son’s girlfriend … or maybe ex-girlfriend.

Giovanni, who runs Buon Caffè, knows I’ll have a flat white and started making it as soon as I came through the door.

‘How you doing?’ he asked. ‘Still sorting other people’s rubbish?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘No. I’ve got enough rubbish of my own that still isn’t sorted.’

It’s an exchange we have, with slight variations, every time I go in the place. Fortunately, the weather was fine, one of those May days which feel like summer. So, I could sit outside, with a view of what used to be the Shippams Fish Paste factory. Depending on how the conversation ahead went, I might be better placed there than in the eavesdropping intimacy of the interior.