Ricky jerked his head at the clock on the wall. ‘I don’t think you’re going to find a solicitor in his office at half past five on a Friday afternoon.’

‘Probably not,’ I sighed, but I tried his number anyway. The answer machine kicked in after several rings and I put the receiver down. There was no point in leaving a message. It would have to wait until Monday. I drained my teacup. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Well, at least you can stop worrying about Vlad,’ Morris told me, catching my arm. ‘He’s safely under lock and key.’

‘You look after yourself, Juno,’ Ricky advised, pointing his fag hand at me. ‘Take it easy over the weekend.’

‘I will,’ I promised, lying. Bloody ceilings do not paint themselves.

Stupidly, I decided to get the job out of the way that evening. I was already knackered, but I argued to myself that a quick coat of paint with the roller couldn’t take long and if that didn’t do the trick it could dry overnight, ready for another coat next morning.

But when I let myself inside the shop, I found it was raining. There was a large shiny puddle on the floor, a steady dripping from above. I looked up and swore. The stain on the ceiling was a dirty cloud; I held my hand out beneath it and felt a cold droplet of water on my palm. I stared as another droplet bounced off my skin.

The nearest bucket was upstairs, so I fetched a willow-pattern chamber pot from the corner and placed it on the floor to catch the drips. Then I ran up the stairs into the living room.

I surveyed the bare floorboards, looking for one I could lift. I found one right in the middle of the floor, in front of the fireplace, lifted it out with a bit of heaving and groaning, slid it aside and knelt, peered down into the black void beneath.