Latimer entered the large kitchen at the rear of the house. Hobbes followed her and was immediately struck by the stench of vomit. In this room one final battle had taken place, life against death. The usual winner.

The old man was slumped at the table, the side of his head resting on a linen napkin as though placed there in position. A pair of spectacles lay a few inches away, carefully folded. But his body had reacted badly to its final throes: a teacup had landed on the floor, smashed to pieces, and plates and cutlery on the tabletop were scattered about, probably pushed away by one of the man’s arms as it spasmed outwards, seeking one last hold on the material world.

Jesus. What could you do?

Hobbes moved closer and leaned over. A fly was walking across the man’s right hand. The detective shooed it away. He looked closely at his subject. The face was well creased, almost cadaverous, determination still etched into the features. He had the wiry, gnarled look of an ageing greyhound. His hair was pure white and sparse on top, the remaining strands overly long and untidy. It had been many weeks since he’d had a haircut. And yet he’d dressed himself in a blue blazer and matching necktie for this occasion: Hobbes had seen such behaviour before, people getting dolled up for their leave-taking. A military man, perhaps. At the very least a person keen to leave a good corpse. A stream of vomit had gathered and dried in the deep cleft of his chin, and on the table around his mouth, which was still open, caught in a snarl. Brown teeth, one visibly rotten, and a couple of gaps. A liver spot high on the brow.

A bottle of vodka had remained standing on the table, along with a glass tumbler. A number of white tablets had spilled from a small container.

‘Sleeping pills?’

Latimer nodded.

For a moment Hobbes said nothing, but simply stared ahead at the kitchen wall. No, he never quite got used to it.

Latimer told him, ‘His name’s Leonard Graves. I’m guessing mid-eighties.’

‘A good enough age to go.’

‘I’d be happy with that. He lived alone. The lady next door found him earlier today. She’s a bit of a saint, apparently. Comes in once a week to do a spot of cleaning, bring him food and make sure he’s all right. She has a key.’

Hobbes nodded to himself. ‘The poor sod. Probably thought he’d just fall asleep.’

‘A common mistake. And the doctor agrees. Self-administered.’

‘Time of death?’

‘About two hours ago.’

‘Yes, yes …’

Something on the table had caught the inspector’s attention.

Latimer continued: ‘According to Mrs Travis – that’s the neighbour – he’d been poorly for a while, but always refused offers of medical help.’

Hobbes picked up the object. It was a lady’s handkerchief, a lacy affair. White, with a monogram in lilac: M.E. It looked out of place next to an ashtray filled to the brim with Park Drive butts. But the cloth gave off an aroma – sweet, cloying, deeply engrained. His eyes scanned the table. Yes, there it was, near the milk jug, a dark-blue bottle labelled Midnight in Paris. He pictured the old man making this movement: his finger holding the spray button down to saturate a handkerchief with scent. And then perhaps the handkerchief raised to his face …