I wanted information and here it is, though there’s an awfulness to it that makes me feel sick. I concentrate on every word, even though the woman’s voice through the phone line is faint and seems to jumble in the ringing of my ears. ‘They had no luck, tracing her parents, they tried but … and yes, it says here … there were a couple of other relatives, as well, deceased.’

I let my pen fall and put a hand to my head. ‘What else?’ I ask. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘No … I’m sorry, I don’t think there’s … Oh, wait … it says here …’ I can hear a rustling of papers and then her voice is louder on the line. ‘There was someone they did trace, I mean, a living relative but it says …’ The young woman on the other end breaks off, becomes flustered. Her voice becomes fainter than ever. She sounds like a ghost, or a figment of my imagination. ‘It just says: refused to respond.’

I push my chair back from the desk and lower my head towards my knees, trying to stem the nausea I feel. Refused to respond? I think of my mother. The fact that we haven’t spoken in nearly four years, the fact that she gets angry with Dad when he calls.

‘Who?’ I manage to say. ‘Who was that?’

But now the girl seems to realize her mistake, sensing that somewhere she’s broken protocol. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t, I shouldn’t have …’

I can feel that she’s just about to hang up. ‘Wait,’ I say. I sit myself back up, setting my spine straight. ‘The funeral then? What about that?’

She hesitates again, like she’s recalibrating. Then: ‘Yes, that’s all arranged. They rushed it through. One p.m., twenty-seventh of February. West Norwood Crematorium.’

As I write the details down, the itch, the urge runs all through my body. I shouldn’t get involved, I know that, I should stay here and get on with my job. But I failed once before to show up for Ms Jones and I have the time – my lunch hour – and I have the location. Before I’m even aware of deciding, I’m already pulling on my coat.

Because the twenty-seventh of February.

That’s today.

There are plenty of buses that run between Brixton and West Norwood, and one comes only a few seconds after I reach the bus stop outside the Iceland supermarket. It is not too full and I’m not going far, so I take a seat on the ground floor.