That phrase pulls me up. I’m not. I’m not struggling.

‘Thank you,’ I say. My voice has taken on its familiar straitlaced tone. ‘That isn’t necessary. I just thought to call … in case there was anything more you might need from me, but if there isn’t then—’

‘Thank you, Jennifer. Goodbye.’

On my phone I open up Google and search yet again. Now, suddenly, there’s an article about her, time-stamped late last night. They still haven’t mentioned her name though, only woman found, body found … They’ve written about the results of the post mortem. Somehow this journalist has got hold of that. I can feel my jaw shivering as I scan the lines. They traced her dental records and matched the pattern of her teeth to the jawline of her remains.

The pattern of her teeth.

From the dates of the oldest unopened post, the use-by stamps on the neglected food in the fridge, they estimate that she died ten months ago. Ten months. Late April last year. A matter of weeks before my annual inspection was due. So it’s because of me that she lay there that long. Ten months; almost a year. Breathe, Jennifer. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

The pathologist hasn’t established a clear cause of death. But there were no signs of forced entry. No sign that anyone else had been in the flat. No signs of a struggle. Door locked from the inside.

And now I can’t decide for myself which is worse. That someone might have harmed a young woman and kept her death hidden from everyone; that somebody in this world might have done that, and covered their tracks so well that even the police have given up the case. Or that a body could simply lie there, with people passing by every day, a thousand lives going by all around her, without being missed by anybody at all.

The wrongness of it all makes me light-headed. Out of instinct, I dial the number for the local authority. They know my name; I have dealings with them all the time, for our council tenants. I manage to get through to the relevant department, and I’m lucky to have a junior person on the line.

‘I’m calling about Sarah Jones,’ I say. ‘About her funeral. I understand you’re arranging it?’

‘Oh,’ the girl on the other end says. ‘Yes. We had to. The police couldn’t make contact with a next of kin. We step in in situations like this.’

I do my best to keep my voice professional. Not show my emotions, my dragging sense of horror. ‘There was no one?’