His shadow trembled on the floor.

The kitchen clock: a quarter past midnight.

Thank God, nobody here to …

A resident animal moved behind the skirting board, scratching away, always unseen.

He drank a glass of water, then turned off the tap.

The silence.

Within it, a voice. Quiet, barely heard. And then getting louder, calling to him from the shadows of the room.

He listened.

It was an old man’s voice saying over and over the same few phrases: Dearest Adeline, I’m so sorry. For everything. Dearest Adeline, I’m so sorry. For everything. A final message. But sorry for what? A broken promise, something lost, or stolen … or for pain given, a life taken? Hobbes knew the words would keep on repeating, whenever he was still and quiet enough to listen, until this case was done, and the ghost in the blue and yellow flowered dress had been brought into the light, or laid to rest. Whichever might be appropriate.

And then his breath caught in his throat.

Hobbes tensed.

Somebody was outside, moving around. Feet on concrete, the fall of something heavy against the wall. Hobbes was by the door in seconds, his entire body leaning forward. The presence was there, he knew it, just on the other side of the door. Somebody waiting in the dark outside, listening, as he was. For a sign.

Hobbes clicked on the kitchen light, hoping to startle the person outside into action. But there was no further noise. He waited a moment longer, then opened the door.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’

A figure scurried back, his hands already reaching to pull up the bicycle that had fallen over. Hobbes stepped out – feet on the pavement, gritty, cold – dragged the person upright and twisted him around to see his face.

It was Martin, his son.

Neither spoke. They stared at each other.

Hobbes kept it cool, as best he could. ‘Do you want to come inside?’

Martin looked down the alley, to the street. A way of escape. But then he turned back, and nodded.

‘It’s all right,’ Hobbes said. ‘Leave the bike there. It’s safe.’

The lad followed him inside. Hobbes steered him to the living room. ‘You’ve never been here before, have you?’ Hobbes was suddenly ashamed of where he’d ended up. ‘This is only temporary.’

Martin looked round in a vague manner. He hadn’t yet spoken.

‘I didn’t think you knew where I lived. Did your mother tell you?’

Still no response.

The teenager’s face showed evidence of the grey pallor Glenda had mentioned. It was true, the lad didn’t look too good. Hobbes glanced at his hands, but they were covered with cycling gloves.

‘Give me a second, will you? Just one second.’ Hobbes went into his bedroom, put on his slippers, and found his dressing-gown. He paused at the door, collecting his thoughts.

Don’t blow this.

He went back into the living room, all smiles. ‘Would you like a drink? A cup of tea?’