‘Would you mind if I come in?’ I say to the woman. ‘Just to make sure he’s not here.’

‘Be my guest,’ she says, opening the door a little wider. ‘If it goes on much longer, I’m going to have to call the landlord.’

‘But I . . .’ I say, confused, before remembering that Leon is the contact she’s likely to have. I wonder what he’d make of a complaint of loud music from a flat he thinks is empty.

Once I’m in the hall I knock on the door, and when there’s no movement from the other side I reach into my bag, feeling my way past the lip balm, hand sanitizer, receipts and tampons, for the keys on a Canterbury Cathedral fob.

My stomach lurches as I silently slide the Yale key into the lock, my head fast-tracking forwards to what I might find. Of all the broken pieces in this sorry state of affairs, it’s the neighbour’s reports of incessant loud music that’s spooked me the most.

As soon as I push the door slightly ajar, I can hear Alanis Morissette blaring out from down the hall. Her bitter words resound in my head as I tiptoe ever closer to the source, forcing myself not to look anywhere but straight ahead, to where the music’s coming from; Jacob’s bedroom.

The door’s closed and my heart is in my mouth as I grab hold of the handle, knowing this is my last chance to back out. But as much as I want to, how can I?

With trembling fingers, I turn the knob slowly, desperately trying to rid myself of the image of Jacob’s lifeless body hanging from the ceiling. Would he have done that to himself, before she had the chance to? Or might she have set it up so that it looked like he couldn’t live without her?

My chest heaves and I swallow the retch that pushes its way up my windpipe.

As soon as it’s off the latch, I throw the door open, forcing myself to acknowledge that whatever’s there, it isn’t going to be any easier to deal with in slow motion.

The music is deafening, but besides Alanis reminding me of the mess I left when I went away, there’s nothing to suggest that anything is amiss. The bed is neatly made, photos of Jacob’s children stand proudly on the nightstand, and a suit in dry-cleaning cellophane hangs on the wardrobe door.

‘Alexa, turn the music off!’

The sudden silence makes me want to cry, as all the pent-up nerves and emotion rush to flood out of me. But I sink my teeth into my lip in an effort to hold it together.