Nicola’s face was pale, so I waited for her to sit down. She sunk onto a chair and attempted to straighten her hair.

‘We believe that Patrick may have met the man who killed him during the period when he was sleeping rough. Unfortunately, we have little knowledge of the people he hung out with, if he made any friends, who he got into rucks with. Can you help us?’

Nicola’s face changed immediately. ‘Do you think so?’ Concern and protectiveness replaced her irritation. ‘I’ve been going over and over all the people he met, trying to think who might want to hurt him. All the times I saw him, and followed him, and went to meet him. I kept engineering things so I would bump into him, just to check he was OK. I was convinced he was going to get murdered on those bloody streets.’ The words came out with a whoosh of emotion, followed by deep sobs.

I waited a few moments. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea or something? I’m aware I’ve barged in and it’s hardly likely to help your migraine.’

She dabbed at her nostrils with a soggy tissue, and blew her nose. ‘Thank you.’ She checked the clock on the wall. ‘I can take a couple more Migraleve actually.’

‘While I put the kettle on, could you cast your mind back? Did Patrick ever mention meeting a man called Kenny Hayes? Sometimes he used the name Karl or Kyle.’

Her face registered nothing.

In the kitchen, I flicked the kettle on to boil and took two mugs from the draining board. While I was waiting for the water to heat, I let my gaze wander round the room. A solid wood worktop lay over a breakfast bar, and high stools had been fashioned of the same wood. A cream retro fridge occupied a corner, and matching cream cabinets nestled against the walls under soft lighting. It was a lovely room. Clearly Nicola Grant’s new husband earned good money, and they were very comfortably off. On the wall over the radiator, someone had assembled a collage of photographs. At least a third of these had Patrick in. With Nicola and Amanda; with both girls; on his own; in his hard hat, boots and reflective gear at the Manor House site; on their wedding day; with a few of his peers on the trading floor at the bank. One image in particular caught my eye. In it, Patrick Ryan was eating some food from a paper plate. In the background, several guys were also tucking into food, including a very tall one.

‘Nicola?’ I yelled towards the lounge. I leapt over to the door and shouted down the hall. ‘Can you come in here a second?’

It was Kenny. The pinched features. The small skull. The ugly tattoo. The door-frame height.

‘What is it?’ She was shaking.