When Spencer arrived at the care home in Wandsworth where Michael Langton was a resident, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn’t have that awful old-people’s-home smell of stale food and disinfectant. There was a fresh feeling to the wide reception area. It had two comfortable chairs and a small desk with a phone and typewriter, plus a high stool. There was no one present when he walked in. There was a neat board with directions to the kitchen, dining hall, activities room and day room. There was also a second board with a list of names and room numbers. Spencer headed towards the kitchen and drew a wide sliding door open. A pretty young black girl was cooking, stirring a big pot on the stove, and when she turned to Spencer, he noticed she was wearing leg braces and was missing half an arm.

‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a Michael Langton. I’m Detective Sergeant Spencer Gibbs.’ He showed her his ID.

‘I think you’ll find him in the activity room. If not, he’ll be in his room. Shall I find him for you?’

‘No, no, I’m fine, I can have a look myself.’

Spencer left the kitchen and pulled the door closed. He noticed that the reception and corridor were extra wide to accommodate wheelchairs. The wide door with the Activity Room sign on it had a door knob very low down. He opened the door and looked in. The room was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a garden. There was a half-size table-tennis table, a lowered table-football table and four easels with half-finished canvases alongside tables containing oil paints and brushes. The only occupant of the room was seated in a high wheelchair fitted with a hydraulic lift device to enable the occupant to move up and down. He was painting using a brush in his mouth. Although incomplete, Spencer could see it was an astonishing, vibrant image of two horses jumping a fence. Pinned to the canvas was a photograph.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt . . . ’

Spencer watched as Michael Langton turned his head and very carefully used his mouth to put the paint brush into a jar of turps, then turned the chair around by using the stump of his right arm. He was a good-looking man. Probably in his late thirties, he had a square jaw with high cheekbones and very dark thick-lashed eyes. His reddish hair was wiry and cropped close. At one time he must have been at least six foot, and he still looked very athletic, with wide shoulders tapering down to his waist. His legs had been amputated just above the knee and he had no left arm, only the stub of his right arm. He was wearing a tartan shirt and army fatigue trousers folded up under his knees.