He was beginning to sound like Inspector Ford. I promised I’d behave. I decided not to tell him I was going to clean up Nick’s flat, he’d know damn well I was going in there to snoop for clues, but I did tell him about Nick’s funeral.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll be coming down for it?’ I asked.

There was a brief silence at the end of the phone. ‘Probably not,’ he said.

‘OK.’ I tried to say it without reproach.

‘Mind you,’ he went on quickly, ‘I’d like a look at these children of his.’

‘I’m gagging to see them myself.’

Paul was quiet a moment. ‘Look, I know it’s tempting to blame them for ignoring him when he came out of prison, but they were only young kids then. And Nick never spoke about them. He didn’t seem lonely or unhappy to me. To be honest, I don’t think he was all that bothered.’

I sighed. In my days as a carer I’d come across a lot of families who weren’t that bothered. But as young Mr Young had said, I wasn’t in a position to judge. Not, I had to admit to myself, that that was likely to stop me trying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The clock in Nick’s living room had finally stopped. Young Mr Young and I stood together on the pale rectangles where the bloodstained rugs had lain, looking around us. The curtains were drawn and the feeble yellow light added to the pervading sense of sadness.

‘Are you all right, Miss Browne?’ young Mr Young asked me anxiously. He was a thin, dried-out husk of a man in his fifties. I couldn’t imagine what old Mr Young must look like.

‘I’m fine,’ I assured him. But the atmosphere in the room was getting to me. The flat had been shut up for weeks and the smell was difficult to describe. Not the sharp, metallic tang of blood when it is fresh, but something sweeter, sicklier, more corrupt.

I felt a little nauseous. ‘Let’s open some windows, shall we?’ I asked, in an attempt to sound brisk. Crossing the living room, I swept back the curtains and threw up the sash.

Mr Young hurried into the kitchen to do the same. ‘That’s better,’ he breathed, ‘let’s get some fresh air circulating.’ Then he turned to me. ‘You’re sure you won’t be nervous here, Miss Browne?’

‘Perfectly sure.’

‘In that case, if you’ll forgive me, I must make a phone call to my office …’

‘You won’t get a mobile signal here,’ I warned him.