‘If we’re lucky, Nicholas Graves kept everything we found in the cellar floor, including this box.’

‘Why didn’t you take it away?’

‘There wasn’t a crime, back then. That’s why. Now, look, it might’ve been hidden somewhere. Or he might have thrown it away.’

‘We could try the bins, you never know.’

‘Good idea. You see to that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the dresses, of course. All examples. Whatever you can find.’

‘I’ll get on to it.’

The constable walked along the hallway corridor. Hobbes thought of going upstairs, but instead chose the living room. He turned on the light and started to search, opening drawers in the Welsh dresser and looking in the various ornamental boxes set on the bookshelves. His thoughts settled on one subject. He couldn’t help thinking that he’d overlooked something with Nicholas Graves. The man had been in the station, in the goddamn police station, sitting across a table from Hobbes. In his mind, the inspector played over and over the man’s words during that interview, trying to work out the flaw, the tiny thing he’d missed. He felt certain that if only he’d acted even slightly differently Nicholas would still be alive.

There was nothing to be found here. He moved on, passing the open door that led to the ground-floor room that old Leonard Graves had used as a makeshift bedroom, during the final months of his life. Barlow was in there, looking through the drawers of a cabinet.

‘Anything?’

‘A lot of dust. Old pennies, toy soldiers. Oh, and a ration book.’

‘That’s going back some.’

Barlow nodded and carried on with his work.

Hobbes climbed the stairs to the first landing, making his way to the boy’s bedroom, with its posters of steam trains and cruise ships, the preserved atmosphere. His hunch proved correct: Nicholas Graves had set up house here, sleeping on his old childhood bed, surrounded by the things of yesterday. It was a comfort, after his father’s suicide. Or sheer force of habit. Fear, maybe? The only place in the house the ghosts couldn’t visit. There was a suitcase on the floor, the lid open, showing a few items inside. A couple of shirts and a jacket hanging in the wardrobe. The eiderdown on the bed was ruffled, the sheets pulled back.

Father and son, both taken from the world in the space of a week.

What was the connection?

Why was Nicholas Graves murdered? Was it inevitable, once his father had died, a plan set in motion?

The questions were beginning, one by one. Soon the house would be overrun by police officers, and the forensics team, searching for clues to intruders: fingerprints, footprints in the dust, smears on the walls, anything that might point to someone having been here with Nicholas. But, for now, the building was quiet, the shadows still settling.

Hobbes started with the suitcase, but there was little of interest: dirty socks, yesterday’s Telegraph, a clothes brush and a packet of liver tablets. He tried the drawers of the cabinets, the wardrobe, the pockets of the jacket. He looked under the bed. Another chamber pot, this one decorated with a picture of a bulldog, God knew why. The Bulldog Breed, perhaps. Ah, well, I suppose we should … just in case … He pulled the pot from under the bed and looked inside. A couple of dead flies and a still-living spider, that was all. He tipped the spider on to the floor and let it live on. The bedside cabinet held a traveller’s fold-up alarm clock, nothing else. He stood in the centre of the room, reluctant to leave: he really needed to find that jewellery box, and the objects it contained. At least he’d had the wherewithal to photograph them at the time of the excavation.