‘That’s the wife,’ says Brimley, following her gaze. ‘Love of my life, she was. Can’t say I’ve ever really got over it. They called her “a glorious spirit” in the newspaper. She’d have liked that.’

Pharaoh licks dry lips. Drinks in the other details of the room. Picks out muddy footprints on the swirling carpet. Spots the discarded running trainers by the little armchair, the soles crusted red and brown.

‘You called her Dymphna,’ says Pharaoh, chattily. ‘I presume that means you were more than passing acquaintances?’

‘Lovely name, isn’t it?’ says Brimley, dreamily. He rubs at his chin, his grey beard rasping against his palm. ‘She shouldn’t have been using her residential property for business purposes. Really very much a no-no. But it does almost make you think there’s a purpose to everything, doesn’t it? I mean, twenty minutes away! All the miles I’ve put in, and there she was, on my own doorstep. It would have delighted Evangeline. A big lover of oddities and coincidence and chance. A real Bohemian spirit, my wife. They got her young, you see. Bridlington seafront. Madame Rosalita, I think it was. Told her everything she wanted to hear. Going to travel, going to marry her true love, going to spend time living abroad. No children. Didn’t mention the life-line, though I suppose now I can see why. Even gave her a message from her own personal angel, telling her that Grandma was sorry she didn’t make it to her ballet performance and that she was very proud of her. Of course, you and me know that it’s all just about reading people and guesswork. I mean, even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut, doesn’t it? But she believed in them with all her heart. I indulged it, I realize that now. But it was harmless, wasn’t it? Psychic nights, Tarot readings, spiritualist conventions. By God they fleeced her, but as far as I saw it we were just paying for her hobby.’

Pharaoh shifts on the sofa. Breathes out, slowly. ‘Mr Brimley, perhaps I could use your telephone for a moment, I’m keen to check in …’

Brimley glances at her. Shakes his head. Reaches down the cushion of the armchair and retrieves a large, wood-handled hammer.

‘Best you stay there,’ says Brimley, his tone still pure reasonableness. He picks at a patch of dried blood on the metal head. ‘It wasn’t until she got poorly that it became a problem. One of those bastards told her they could cure her. She bought a talisman from Psychic Serena. Told her it had been dug out of the earth intact and enchanted by a Hungarian priestess. Eight thousand, it cost that time. Five more for the incantation she had to say while washing her face in the morning dew. And Psychic fucking Serena had a boyfriend, didn’t she? And he saw a cash cow. Told her he’d spoken to the angels on her behalf. He could save her, banish the illness, guarantee her a happy, long life. He said there were black auras surrounding her and he could make them go away. Ten grand was nothing, was it? Not for that …’