Hobbes went back to trying keys in the lock. He found the right one.

‘Inspector?’

‘What is it?’

‘Will he be coming back soon? Only …’

‘Yes?’

‘Only Nick’s got food in the fridge, see. Maybe I should eat it, what do you think?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘It’ll go off, otherwise— What did you say?’

‘Nicholas Graves was found dead on Sunday evening.’

Hobbes studied the tenant’s reaction. It was pure surprise, shock even. No guile. For form’s sake, he asked, ‘Where were you, on that night?’

‘Sunday? Me? In here. Indoors. Why?’

‘No matter.’

‘Mavis and Tom saw me at teatime, we chatted in the kitchen. Fish fingers.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That’s what I ate. Fish fingers and beans.’ It was offered as proof of alibi.

Hobbes smiled. ‘Thank you for your time.’

He waited until Beck had re-entered his bedsit, and then he opened the door of flat three. The dead man’s place of residence.

The detective stood on the threshold, concentrating, seeking out every detail, even before taking a step. He knew that the room held something of import – all rooms did – but such clues were often hidden or, if in plain sight, not of obvious significance. It was a case of sorting through the chaos. But Hobbes saw straight away that his job would be very different this time.

The room was almost bare. He stepped inside.

There was a single bed in the corner and a wooden chair next to a desk, a wardrobe, a rickety bookcase. That was it. No pictures on the walls. Very few personal belongings on view. The wardrobe held one jacket and a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts, a few items of underwear, socks, a brown tie on a rack. Nothing in the pockets of the jacket.

Talk about the greasy slope. A life almost down to zero. And there was Graves Senior, lumbering around in that giant house all alone. Maybe Nicholas had been resentful.

Hobbes looked under the bed and found a single issue of a body-building magazine. He checked the drawer in the table. A few sheets of blank paper, a biro. His UB40 card. Some spare change. No sign of a typewriter or any other evidence of journalistic activity. Nothing much to show for the struggle, the years put in, the dreaming. Did he welcome those few nights he had slept at Bridlemere, after his father died, in the comfort of his childhood room? Or perhaps he liked the dismal life. Hobbes knew that some people just give in one day, and lead far better lives for doing so: no lead weights around the neck.

Inventory of a dead man.

Four cigarette butts in an ashtray.

That body-building magazine. Presumably of erotic intent?

A dark stain on the ceiling.

Grey, almost transparent curtains. No shade on the overhead light.

Only the bookshelf showed evidence of an individual at play: all three shelves were crammed with books, most of them hardbacks. It took Hobbes a moment to realize that he was looking at the same title, repeated on every single book, very often the same edition of the same novel. One copy lay flat on the top shelf of the stand; perhaps Nicholas Graves had been reading it recently. Hobbes picked it up.