I leave the phone there on the desk and force myself to walk to Abayomi’s door and knock. When he calls me in, I sit down in the chair across from him without even being asked to. I set Ms Jones’s file down in front of me, lining its edges up with those of the desk. I try to find the right words to say it, think what any normal person would do.

‘Something has happened,’ I manage to tell him. Abayomi lowers his mug of coffee, setting it down on a coaster that bears our company logo. I fight with myself not to let my voice shudder or the muscles in my legs shake. On the inside, it feels as though the whole of me is trembling, as if there’s a kind of earthquake running through my core. But on the outside, on the surface, nothing shows. This is my job; this is my work, my profession. This is the proof of my competence in the world.

‘We found something,’ I tell him, ‘in flat sixteen. A body.’ Even as the words come out of my mouth they sound ridiculous, impossible to me. Over my shoulder, I catch sight of Emma, back from her appointment and hovering in the doorway. Abayomi glances up and sees her too.

‘Just give us a moment, will you, Emma?’ He gets up and closes the door gently, ushering her away. When he sits back down again, I clamp my teeth together because it feels as if my whole jaw wants to chatter. ‘The police will be coming here soon to take a statement,’ I say. But how am I ever going to explain to him, this thing that has happened, in that flat, on my watch?

‘The police are at the flat now?’ Abayomi asks.

‘Yes. The door was … we had to call them.’

‘Okay, good,’ says Abayomi. He draws a sheet of paper towards him, makes a note. ‘That’s the most immediate concern. Alerting them, making sure the scene is secure.’ He looks up. Perhaps he sees how ashen my face is because his tone becomes gentle. ‘Listen, Jenn, it happens. A tenant dying at home. This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.’

His pen rests against the paper, ready to take down details. ‘So, it’s flat sixteen?’ he says. ‘And the tenant’s name?’

I open the file in front of me.

‘Jones,’ I reply. ‘Ms Sarah Jones.’ I press my finger to the page where it’s written, as if to keep my mind in place. On the cover sheet, right next to the name, I see the date of birth. Something knocks at the side of my mind, some thought or memory, but I can’t grasp what it is. Instead, my jittering brain does the calculation. ‘Abayomi?’

He’s still writing.

‘She was only twenty-six,’ I blurt out.