‘I’m home!’ he called out.

Silence.

As he went through into the living area, Humphrey walking along beside him, he saw Noah’s baby monitor on the coffee table in front of the sofa, beside a book Cleo was part way through.

‘Cleo!’ he called out, then climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. No sign of her. He slung his jacket onto the antique chaise longue in front of the bed that they’d bought at the weekly auction in Lewes, tugged off his tie and dropped that onto it, then undid the top two buttons of his shirt and walked along the corridor to Noah’s room, rolling up his sleeves. He opened the door. The curtains were drawn and he saw the silhouette of his son asleep.

He crept over and looked down at the boy, curled up in his cot – which he would soon outgrow – clutching his special teddy and a small stuffed monkey close to his face.

Blowing him a silent kiss, he retreated, closing the door softly, then climbed the steep attic steps and opened the door to Bruno’s room. Instantly, he felt a tug in his heart. Cleo was sitting on the end of his bed, on the red-and-white Bayern Munich bedspread, dressed in a loose smock, her hair clipped up, hands folded in her lap.

‘Darling,’ he said gently.

She looked up at him through red, tear-stained eyes, her face a picture of sadness.

He strode over, sat down beside her and put his arm around her, kissing her on her wet cheek.

‘It’s just so horrible, isn’t it?’ she said.

He hugged her tightly to him. ‘Yes.’

He gazed around the cosy little room at the poster of Pascal Gross looking triumphant, scoring a winner for Brighton and Hove Albion. He looked at the television screen on the wall and Bruno’s beloved gaming box, wires trailing, beneath it. The little dressing table with a neat row of bottles and tubes of hair gel.

He was tearful now, too. ‘I still just – I just—’ He fell silent for some moments. ‘I knew him for such a short time. I just wish we’d had longer. I’m sure in time I could – we could—’ He fell silent again.

Cleo squeezed his hand. ‘You would,’ she said. ‘I know you would.’

They sat in silence again. Cleo finally broke it. ‘I know he had his strange ways, but he was a nice person at heart, I’m sure of it.’

Grace thought suddenly about the dead hens. Neatly laid out. Remembering what Bruno had said to him in the car on Tuesday, just three days ago, when he’d been fine, alive, alert. His comment about the ancient Egyptians.

Had Bruno somehow known he was going to die that day? Had he prepped for it? Killed the two hens – his favourites?

Was he wanting them to be mummified and buried with him?

‘He had the most rotten start in life,’ Cleo went on, ‘but he really did love the hens – and Humphrey.’ She paused. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’