‘Do you know this man?’ I pointed at the photograph.

She screwed up her eyes to get a good look. It wasn’t a brilliant picture. Slightly out of focus. ‘Hold on. Let me get my glasses.’ She turned and scanned the room. Grabbed them up from the worktop by the fruit bowl.

I unpinned the photo and passed it to her. ‘This is the guy we think may have killed Patrick.’

Nicola studied the image and I wondered how she felt, staring into the face of the person who’d killed the man she clearly loved deeply. ‘I have no idea who he is.’

‘Are you sure?’

She peered again. Squinted.

‘Does he look familiar?’

She shrugged. ‘No.’ She put her hand out to steady herself. ‘This man killed Patrick?’

‘We think so. Who took this photograph? Where was it taken?’

‘I must have taken it. Amanda never came to Saturday Soup. I wouldn’t let her. It’s the charity hot food thing at Waterloo every week for the homeless. Volunteers cook food and bring it down. I help them. It was a way of making sure that Patrick got a hot meal at least once a week and I could keep tabs on him. The volunteers talk to the men and women, trying to help them get fixed up with hostels, GP services, dentists, showers. I still help out because I know how tough the streets are.’

‘Did the same people come every week?’

‘A lot of them were regulars, yeah.’

‘Can you get me the contact number of the Saturday Soup coordinators? I need to call them. One of them may know where this guy lives.’

*

Ten minutes later, I’d got through to Phil Harmond, one of the Project Coordinators at Saturday Soup. I’d taken a copy of Nicola’s image on my phone and emailed it to him.

‘Yeah. I do recognise him,’ Phil told me over the phone. ‘Can’t miss that ugly scar down his neck, can you? Seen him recently too and gave him short shrift. His hair’s shaven now and I don’t think he’s still staying in hostels. I think he’s living in someone’s flat. Name’s . . . hang on . . . oh shit, what is it now? Kyle. That’s it. One of the guys kept calling him “Kylie” to wind him up, and he went apeshit. A whisker away from head-butting the chap. What’s he done, by the way?’

I explained. ‘Does anyone know where this flat is?’

‘No. But one of the women mentioned that he wasn’t homeless. She was petrified of him. Said something about drugs and the Ocean Estate. That any help?’

‘Definitely. Thank you.’ Hopefully Alexej had got an exact address from New City College by now.

‘I’ll get this picture out to as many services and people as I can then. See if anyone can help you with a proper address.’