I finally got around to clearing out Nick’s kitchen. I’d been putting it off. I didn’t know what to do about Nick’s flat, knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable living there, so I’d put off giving the place the thorough blitzing that it needed. I should have done it weeks ago. Now, it had become part-therapy, a way to get through the weekend, and part-penance. I scraped away at the tiny, frosted-up icebox of Nick’s ancient fridge, which had been chugging away valiantly for months because no one − not me, nor the solicitor, nor Nick’s family − had thought to turn it off. The contents, in various stages of decomposition, were resting in black plastic refuse sacks en route to the bins outside, along with well-wrapped bottles of various nasty substances cleared from the cupboard under the sink.

After hacking away with a knife, struggling to unjam a packet of fish fingers set solidly into a block of ice, I decided to abandon the fridge, let it get on by itself, leave the ice to defrost naturally, although the polar ice caps would probably have melted before it released its hold on the fish fingers. I spread newspaper on the floor to sop up any wetness and turned my attention to the kitchen cupboards. They were packed with such a weight of tins, jars and bottles I was surprised they’d stayed up on the walls.

Nick had either never heard of sell-by dates or he collected antique food. I threw away ancient tins of tongue and corned beef, packets of dried peas and pudding rice, jars of old pickle and congealing Worcester sauce, bottles of Camp Coffee Essence and tins of mustard powder. I junked the lot.

As I cleared my way to the back of the shelves, I came across an enamelled tin flour shaker and a sugar sifter, old-fashioned kitchenware, quite collectable now. I decided to ditch the contents, wash them out, and put them downstairs with the stock for the shop. As I reached for them, the fridge let drop a chunk of ice, startling me into dropping the flour shaker. The lid came off in a puff of flour and the contents spilt across the worktop. I let out a suitable expletive and grabbed a dustpan and brush.

As I was about to sweep the whole lot up, I saw something glisten. There were lumpy objects in the white powder. I picked one up, blew on it, and a little red eye shone up at me through a dusty coating. I picked up the two other objects, holding them in my cupped palm, and ran them under the kitchen tap, washing the flour away. They came up shining. Three rings: a cluster of tiny diamonds, a row of three rubies, and a square cut emerald.

‘You sly old toad,’ I said aloud to Nick.