On the other side of the courtyard, the doctor punches a series of small buttons ranged in a vertical row and admits them to another corridor, where there is no pretence of putting on a show for members of the public – long, wide, no pictures. They walk a few steps and then all at once, the doctor points down another long corridor that leads off to the left and says, ‘Straight down there, left at the end. Can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks,’ says Lockhart.

The doctor shakes his hand again, making eye contact. ‘You’re welcome, see you!’ He turns briskly, back the way they have come.

Lockhart pauses, absorbing this encounter, then walks down the other corridor and turns left and pushes through the swing doors that have the sign above reading MORTUARY.

The Mortuary Manager takes him into her small office. She is much younger than she sounded on the phone, plump, short dark hair and sparkly blue nail varnish. Lockhart has the unworthy thought that he would fancy her if she lost a few pounds. Her name is Bina.

She hands him the pathology report in a blue plastic folder, ten pages or so. There will be pictures, diagrams, a conclusion. He takes it and feels how flimsy it is, how slippery between his fingers. That’s what we all become, in the end, he thinks, a few pages between thin plastic.

As Lockhart turns to go, he says to Bina, ‘I spoke to that junior doctor you mentioned, Dr Goodison. What do you make of him?’

‘Oh, he’s a real dreamboat,’ Bina replies with a warm smile. ‘Very charming, nurses all love him, patients too. That’s why I noticed when he came round and was a bit odd. He’s normally so charming, always asks lots of questions about yourself, you know, always takes an interest.’ Bina is still smiling as she speaks.

Lockhart thanks her, bids her goodbye and walks back down the corridor following signs for the exit, still interrogating his puzzlement at Goodison’s behaviour.

*

I’m in the back of Lockhart’s car as he drives back to the station, watching Peterborough pass by. I glance at Lockhart’s head from time to time and observe that he has some small pimples on his neck – I’m doing anything to try and get the image out of my head. Matty. My Matty. It really was him – the competent doctor who I saw through Lockhart’s eyes, stooping slightly because of his height, his pale smile. Firm handshake. A bit of a dreamboat – always takes an interest: the man who killed me, liked by everyone.

*

Back at his desk, Lockhart finishes collating the information on Thomas Warren, then he looks for a bit more information about me.