‘Goal number five.’ She’s kicked her shoes off, and her legs are tucked beneath her, like a child. ‘Otamendi, can you believe that?’ She spares me a brief glance, pats the sofa beside her. ‘It could be six,’ she says, ‘and we’re only fifteen minutes in. You can’t miss this.’

I try and explain about Andy coming home but I doubt whether she’s heard me.

‘I won’t be long.’ I tap my watch. ‘I’ll leave the door on the latch.’

I let myself out and go next door. The lights are on in the front room, but the curtains have been pulled tight. I ring the bell twice and, when nothing happens, I venture into the flower bed and tap on the window.

‘Enora,’ I call, ‘from next door.’

Andy lets me in. He looks terrible: pale, drawn, a man close to defeat. I want to put my arms around him, give him a hug, make some of this terrible, terrible loss just a little easier to bear, but there’s still something forbidding about him, a tacit expectation that the rest of the world will keep its distance and leave him alone.

‘So, what happened?’ I ask. It’s the best I can do.

He’s staring at me. I know he wants me gone but when I make no move to leave, he shrugs and holds the door a little wider.

‘Come in,’ he mutters. ‘Why not?’

We go through to the front room. I can smell the sharp tang of chemicals hanging in the stale air, and when I look hard, I notice a crust of whitish powder where the carpet laps against the skirting board.

‘So, where’s my fucking chaise?’ he asks.

‘They took it.’

‘They?’

‘Bullivant, the DI. And one of the forensic people.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘You talked to those bastards?’

‘I watched them from next door. My guess is they want a closer look.’

‘At that chaise.’ He nods. ‘Too fucking right. You know what these people do? They take hostages. It can be a bit of furniture or your whole bloody life. They never know when to stop. And even when you give them the time of day, or even an answer or two, they never believe you. He comes from a dark place, that man. God’s truth, I’d never want to be in his head.’

‘You mean Bullivant?’

‘Yeah. Or that mate of yours, the younger guy.’

‘Brett?’

‘Yeah, him. Arseholes. The pair of them.’

I nod. I’ve no idea what to say. I’ve come here to offer comfort, or at least a listening ear, but this man is beyond reach.

‘Is there anything left to drink in this house?’ I ask.

‘Left?’ he says hotly. ‘You think I’ve necked it all? Is that what you think?’

‘I’m just asking. I’m sorry.’ I pause for a moment while he looks away. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’