I knelt before the fireplace, feeling like I ought to say a prayer. This was a job that should be carried out with reverence: wiping away the last, sad traces of a friend. I hesitated, then quickly wiped blood from the fender and the tiles, not stopping, not giving myself time to think.

Next I applied myself to the carpet. There was a telltale dark outline where one of the rugs had been removed and blood had seeped beyond the straight edge onto the carpet beneath. I sprayed vigorously with some carpet shampoo, scrubbed hard, and left the foam to do its stuff whilst I turned my attention to the wall. The splatters here were more of a problem. As they had dried, they had seeped into the surface of the thick, old-fashioned paper. I tried wetting one of the splashes with the cloth but all that did was make it spread, leaving a paler but larger, more noticeable stain.

I looked around me for inspiration. On Nick’s table lay a scalpel. I picked it up and scraped at the bloodstain, very carefully. I managed to scratch off the stained surface, leaving the clean backing paper behind. I did this several times over, meticulously scraping away at each droplet of blood, frustrated at the time it was taking. When I had finished, the wallpaper looked scarred, as if it had been scraped by furniture. But no one, who didn’t know already, would associate those marks with murder.

I returned to the carpet. The foam had turned a horrible pink and I decided to leave it a bit longer and get on with the dusting. Time was running short. The aluminium powder came off the polished surfaces easily. I paused briefly over the mantelpiece: the rectangle where the candlestick had once stood was still visible. I wiped the dust away, then, shoving the duster under my arm, I flipped through the post propped up behind the clock. Most of it was unopened and it all looked like bills. One torn envelope revealed a receipt for money paid for restoration work, dated two years before. Not likely to be significant.

I peeled back the cuff of my rubber glove enough to see my watch, checked the time, then rushed to the stairs where I did some hasty dusting on the woodwork. The smudges on the wall were more difficult to deal with and required rubbing in vigorous circles with a wet cloth. As I viewed my handiwork I had to admit that it was slovenly. Frankly, I’d have sacked myself if I’d been employing me, but I had to finish work in the living room and time was against me.