In my mind, Vlad was the executioner. He was cold-blooded, too careful to leave telltale traces behind him. He would have worn his black gloves. But the police had little to go on. Searches in Nick’s flat, and through his bins outside, revealed no clue. Police enquiries amongst antiques dealers and pawnshops, appeals to the public on local media, had given them no useful information. Even Nick’s computer did not contain anything of value. He used it to track online auctions, for almost nothing else. He didn’t engage in social media and he didn’t communicate by email.

I couldn’t give the police much information either. Inspector Ford had rung me to ask if Nick had owned a dog. Forensics had dog hairs on the rugs that they’d removed from the flat, coming from several different breeds.

‘That must be something to do with me,’ I’d admitted awkwardly. I’d explained about the Tribe and we’d agreed that I could have carried dog hairs in on the hems of my trousers or the soles of my shoes. I wondered if I left a trail of dog hair everywhere I went, effectively making those places I was paid to clean, dirtier.

Morris peered at me, wearing a worried frown. ‘You know, Juno, you’re looking very tired.’

‘I’m not sleeping so well,’ I admitted. When I did sleep, I dreamt about poor Nick, lying there on the rug. And I didn’t care what he might have done, I missed him.

‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’

I shook my head. ‘He’ll only want to give me sleeping pills.’

‘I know it’s difficult, but you must try and forget it, leave it all behind you.’

‘I’m all right,’ I assured him. ‘I just need to keep busy.’

Ricky stubbed out his cigarette, exhaling as he got to his feet. ‘C’mon then, back to work. These bloody frocks won’t pack themselves.’

Later that night I stood in Shadow Lane. It was close on midnight, no one around. The rain was light, but steady, the cobbles wetly sheened, glistening silver in the glow of a single street lamp. I stood in the shadow of a doorway opposite Nick’s shop, just watching. I didn’t know why I had gone there really, knew I was being stupid. But somehow I felt drawn there. The empty building looked sad, the windows dark, no Nick sitting up in his cosy little flat, listening to his radio. Poor old Nick. The police tape with DO NOT CROSS on it that sealed the entrance to the alleyway had worked loose in one corner, a pale ribbon lifting and flapping in the breeze. I wondered how much longer it would be there. How long before the police gave up on an investigation? I felt I ought to be doing something to help, but I didn’t know what.