‘You do know her then?’ says Kat, and I detect her sense of relief.

‘Well, I know her, yes. I mean, I don’t know her know her, but I know her. If that makes sense?’ I can hear for myself that it doesn’t. ‘I didn’t realise Paul knew her though,’ I add, confused.

Kat pinches at the bridge of her nose then gets up, straightening out her skirt over her knees. ‘How would you describe your relationship?’ she asks.

‘Mine and Paul’s?

‘You and Susan.’

‘Oh, not a prank then?’ She shakes her head. ‘Well, I don’t know… Erm, close enough to make small talk, but I wouldn’t rock up to borrow an angle grinder out of the blue,’ I joke, then instantly wish I hadn’t from the look on Kat’s face. ‘Sorry, it’s these rooms, they… We did some work for her. My brother and I. Like I say, we’re plumbers.’ I stop, closing my eyes as my heart splinters. ‘I’m a plumber. We were there quite a few times in the end, I guess you get chatting. When you spend hours in someone’s airing cupboard, you sort of briefly become friends.’

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Friends.’

‘Well…’ I’ve overstated it for want of a better way to describe it. ‘What happened to her?’

Kat tips her head to one side, holding back her words as if trying to form the correct sentence. ‘She had an accident,’ she says simply.

‘I remember addresses, houses, before people.’ The image of Susan’s semi-detached house is clear in my mind. Awful carpet, a sort of emerald-green paisley. ‘Norton Park Way!’ I exclaim, in some kind of eureka moment.

She looks down at the file to check. ‘Yes.’ She perches on the edge of a chair opposite. ‘That’s right.’

‘Right.’ I sit back in my seat. ‘Well, yes, then, I do know her.’ My eyes flick up to meet hers. Relief has spread across her face and a warning signal grows in my stomach. ‘I mean, like I say, I don’t know her all that well, but I know her. I started to think she made up jobs for us to do, actually. She always seemed to have something else she needed.’

‘She was lonely?’

‘She lived with her parents, so…’

‘Yeah, it seems they both passed away, just recently. When did you last see her?’

‘Oh. I see.’ How do I explain that the detail has been erased by life’s twisted turn of events, probably only a few days after I last saw her? ‘Well, I guess this was last year, late summer, into the autumn. Then perhaps again, earlier this year.’ I realise how certain I sound about timing and feel the need to explain. ‘My brother—’

‘Maybe he could help, your brother?’ she says excitedly. ‘Is he local? Could we call him?’

‘Oh no, he’s…’ The words suffocate. ‘He’s not…’ I hate the word. I hate saying it. It’s as if the moment you say it out loud it becomes true. Which is ridiculous because it is true. But I can pretend otherwise if I don’t say it. ‘He’s no longer with us,’ I say quietly. ‘He died in March.’