He looks up now, surprise on his features, his pen hovering. Is he thinking the same as me? She was young. She was so young.

He clears his throat. ‘Council tenant or private?’

‘Private.’ Somehow my voice is still coming out steady. ‘Assured shorthold.’

‘All right, fine.’ He inhales through his nose and sits back slightly. ‘We’ll need to liaise with her next of kin, once the police have spoken with them, so we can arrange surrender of the tenancy. You said an officer is coming to see you later today?’

‘Yes, I think so. I can check with them then.’

Abayomi nods. ‘Okay, good.’

I look up at the clock on the wall behind him. It’s five to eleven. I had no idea we were at the flat for so long.

‘And …’

‘Yes?’ Abayomi continues to speak with that quiet patience he has, and I keep fighting to draw myself together, becoming – on the outside at least – perfectly composed.

‘And she had rent arrears. Will we have to settle those too?’

He nods. ‘If we can. And once the police are in touch with the next of kin, we can look to arrange transfer of her possessions. Then …’ He rubs a thumb across one eyebrow. ‘… cleaning of the flat. There’s a specialist company that we’ve used once before.’

All these details, all the steps in the procedure should anchor me: knowing that my boss knows what to do and that this has happened before and that there are rules and regulations, a plan to follow, actions we can take.

Abayomi is making it all sound so simple, so routine.

But he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t have the full facts to hand.

I have to say something. There is no way I can avoid this. All I can do is state it clearly, professionally. Show self-awareness and a willingness to learn from my mistake. My words come out in a rush.

‘Abayomi, I have to tell you now. Last summer, I made certain errors. I should have told you but I didn’t. There were checks that I didn’t carry out. The annual inspection for that flat. I missed it and I didn’t tell you. I marked it in the spreadsheet as done. The body – the person …’

I break off, then force myself to continue. ‘I think it’s been there for a really long time.’

Abayomi’s dark skin pales. He lowers his pen. He isn’t writing things down any more. There is the longest silence between us, nothing but the scratching tick of the clock above his head. I can see him readjusting his every assessment of me.

‘And the police want to speak to you?’ he asks again, double-checking everything I’ve just said.

I swallow down the lump in my throat. ‘Yes,’ I tell him again. ‘This afternoon.’