‘It’s cut. I’m guessing with the razor blade.’

‘OK. And then he slices into his forearm, and lets the blood fall on the dress.’

‘Drop by drop.’

‘Some time later he takes an overdose of sleeping pills, smokes a cigarette, and drinks a glass or two of vodka. Kills himself.’

Latimer nodded. ‘That’s the picture.’

For a moment they both stood in silence, staring down at the set of clothes arranged so precisely and artfully on the floor of the living room. The scene lent itself to melancholic thoughts: the out-of-date furniture, the lonely-old-man smell in the place, the way the late-afternoon light shone through the half-open curtains. That damn fool piece of cardboard in the broken window frame: it wouldn’t last out the autumn months. It was enough to make anyone succumb to despair.

Hobbes breathed out evenly. ‘Well … this is strange.’

‘It is. But there are some other things you need to see. Upstairs.’

‘Lead the way.’

They climbed up to the first floor, and into the main bedroom at the front of the house. This showed evidence of a woman’s touch, in the floral curtains, the matching bedspread and pillow cases, the doilies on the dressing-table. Hobbes stopped where he was, a few steps into the room. Another dress was laid out on the bed, again with a pair of nylon stockings and a pair of shoes at the foot, a scarf at the neckline.

‘The scarf and shoes are different from downstairs,’ Latimer said. ‘But the dress …’

‘It’s the same?’

‘The exact same design and size.’

‘Hmm.’ He stepped closer to the bed to inspect the torn area on the dress’s right-hand side, and the blood around the tear. No, it wasn’t blood.

‘It looks like red paint?’

‘This time, yeah.’

The paint was dry to the touch.

‘What do you think?’

Hobbes couldn’t answer. ‘It’s a mystery.’

‘Maybe …’

‘Meg, you have a theory?’

She pursed her lips. ‘His wife died. And this is his way of commemorating her. Hence the old perfume bottle in the kitchen, and the dresses.’

‘We definitely know that his wife died, do we? Or is that an assumption?’

‘The latter. But have a look in the next room.’

They walked along the landing into a smaller bedroom, this one entirely bare of any personal effects, no curtains at the windows, no carpet or rugs on the floor. No photographs or paintings. A single bed, a chest of drawers. That was it.

This time the dress was hanging on a wire coat-hanger from the picture rail, again accompanied by a pair of shoes, resting on the floor beneath. No stockings this time, but with a white silk scarf draped over the shoulders. The tear in the cloth was in the same place as it was in the other two dresses, and also surrounded by a dry smear of rust across a yellow flower.

‘That looks like blood to me.’ Latimer stood at the inspector’s side. ‘But I’m guessing a good few years old.’