But it does look warm in there, which is enticing after three nights sleeping on Clapham Common, freezing cold and petrified. Mark knows there are hostels for rough sleepers, churches that open their doors in winter, but he doesn’t want to go down that road. If he surrounds himself with hopelessness, chances are he’ll get swallowed up by it too. What he really wants is the squat back, somewhere safe to sleep, and private enough to figure out his next move. The maggots with their evidence bags were gone by Saturday, but there’s a new chain and padlock on the front door, and a replica on the back, so access is a problem. He’s working on it, but for now, he’s on the common, under a nest of old clothes and donated blankets.

With a mix of nervousness and forced swagger, Mark pushes on the gate and walks up the short path to the front door, a heavy slab of dark oak that would fit better in Hogwarts Castle than central London.

‘Can I help you?’ a muffled voice calls out as he steps inside. A woman is sat behind an antique desk. There’s one of those plug-in heaters by her feet and it’s glowing red, but she’s still wearing a thick black jacket and a grey scarf that’s wrapped so many times around her neck that half of her face is missing.

‘I’m here for my mate’s inquest,’ Mark explains, trying to sound like he has every right to be there. Which he does. Ted said so.

‘Name of deceased?’

‘Uh, Jon Smith.’ Mark isn’t sure he’d have remembered Jon’s surname if it wasn’t the dullest name on earth.

‘Sorry, no Jon Smith on my list.’

Mark hardens his expression. ‘It’s Tuesday today, yeah?’ Sleeping rough can mess with your diary if your phone runs out of juice, but he’s been charging his at the day centre every day on purpose, and it’s definitely Tuesday, the date of Jon’s inquest. No one told him formally when it would take place, but he overheard the plods mention it when he was waiting to be released on Friday. ‘I was told Jon’s inquest is today.’

The woman draws her perfectly shaped eyebrows together and pulls her scarf down under her chin. She’s wearing dark red lipstick, and suddenly she looks like the mum in the Munster family. ‘Who told you?’ she asks. ‘Did you get a letter from the coroner?’

Mark isn’t keen on explaining that he overheard the news in the police station, but if he says it was a letter, she’ll probably ask to see it and then he’s screwed. ‘I was there the other night, when my mate died,’ he says, choosing to start with the truth. ‘The police said I might be called to give evidence.’