I remember what Abayomi said yesterday. ‘And you can put her next of kin in touch with us? So we can arrange about the tenancy and the outstanding rent, and her possessions?’

PC Delliers nods. ‘Yes, of course. But first things first. Her family don’t even know yet that she’s dead.’

I feel my cheeks burn, chastised. ‘What can I do in the meantime? Isn’t there anything else at all I can do?’

PC Delliers shakes her head. ‘Just – keep all this paperwork to hand. Someone else may want to look at it. We may have to pass this to CID. A young woman found in a flat like that, there’s reason to consider the circumstances suspicious. Other than that, no. If we need anything, we’ll let you know.’

I wait, hoping the phone will ring or that PC Delliers will come back. But nothing happens. It all just goes quiet. Eventually, I open up my computer files and get on with typing up my notes from this morning. For some reason, I can’t stop thinking about that email address in the file: [email protected]. Before long I have done all my other tasks for the day too – made the phone calls, sent the letters, booked the visits – and I sit at my desk, staring at my blank computer screen. Emma is out on yet more visits and Abayomi’s door is shut; he’s on phone calls. As I sit there in the silence, only the clock ticking over the door, all I’m aware of, growing stronger by the minute, is the tug, the pull, towards that flat in Munroe House. There’s a feeling, like a compulsion, that there’s something I need to be doing, even though the police officer said there was nothing I could do. I just really don’t like feeling so helpless.

I still have the keys to the bedsit in my bag from yesterday; the police didn’t think to ask me for them. I press my palms down hard on the desk, and it’s as if that movement alone lifts me from my seat and then I’m standing up and hurriedly tugging on my coat. There is no one around to notice me slip out.