Out there? The balcony, that’s where Harry had gone.

Perhaps he could do a little eavesdropping.

He made his way to the fire escape. The main staircase went down, but there was also a short flight of steps up to the left, and a metal door labelled for maintenance access, presumably to the roof. There was a keypad with a four-digit access code.

He tried it, but it was locked. He tapped out four zeros, just in case someone had left it on the factory settings, and it worked. He pulled the door and emerged onto the windswept top of the tower block. Thick, rufous clouds scudded west to east and, far to his right, the glow of London lit up the base of the clouds. There were various rumbling from housings that controlled air conditioning, heating and presumably water, all grouped within a guardrail a good fifteen feet back from the edge.

Reorienting himself for Harry’s flat, he moved over to the northern edge, and ducked under the guardrail. The surface changed here from tiles to gravelled roofing felt, dotted with damp and slippery moss. He crouched over as he made his way towards the edge. The gusty wind plucked at his clothing, snagging his jacket, his tie snapping and streaming like a flag. Within six feet, as far as he felt safe to go, he could hear music again, and the outer edge of Harry’s balcony came into view. Leaning over the flat’s guardrail, brimming glass in hand, was a man in a dressing gown. The wind ruffling his dark hair as he sipped his drink.

Harry Roy.

From a movement in his shoulders and head, occasionally turning to the left, Gillard could tell Harry was speaking to somebody. Not on the phone. Someone close by, possibly even on the balcony itself. Quite possibly Morag. He was conversing in English, the tone plaintive and apologetic, but the wind and the music conspired to prevent the words themselves from reaching the detective.

Gillard crouched and edged the final few damp and slimy feet to the edge of the building, steadying himself with his hand. He now recognised the music, much louder here. Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. If there was conversation, it was still beyond him. The track ended, and finally Gillard could hear what Harry was saying.

‘I had to, there was no choice. We need the money. It’s not the end, honestly. Look, there will come a time when you can take your rightful position.’ Harry turned from the balcony and, extending his arms as if for an embrace, walked out of Gillard’s line of sight. ‘Awww, come on, we go back so far, so many years. Don’t be like that. Come on.’

It is impossible to describe the sound of a hug, the muffled voice, the intimate conversation. One could never hear the slight touch of lips on skin, but the nuzzling murmurs that preceded and followed were more distinctive. He was sure he had heard the phrase: I love you.