He was in a wheelchair, his head tilted to the side and resting against the headrest. His legs and arms were wasted, and there was a tube that extended from the frame of the wheelchair to his lips.

Wynne was familiar with what it was for. It was a sip-puff tube, through which he could control the chair.

‘Carl Jameson?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ His speech was slurred and difficult to understand.

‘We had a few questions we wanted to ask you, about Annabelle West—’ she caught herself, ‘Anderson.’

‘Is she OK?’ His eyes narrowed; the concern seemed genuine.

‘She’s missing,’ Wynne said. ‘We’re trying to establish her whereabouts.’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ Carl said. ‘But I hope she’s OK.’ His eyes flickered to a bookshelf. ‘She signed her books for me. She read my poems. She liked them.’

‘Her husband mentioned that,’ Wynne said. She paused, then added. ‘He said she was a big fan.’

‘Really?’ Carl said.

‘Yes.’

Dudek looked at her, puzzled. She’d explain later.

‘When was the last time you left the house?’ he said.

‘Yesterday. Mum and I go out every day.’

‘And two nights ago? You were here?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Carl replied. ‘What happened to Annabelle?’

Wynne looked at Dudek. There was no point going any further. Whoever had met Matt Westbrook at the exchange was tall and thin and not in a wheelchair. She smiled.

‘Thank you, Mr Jameson,’ she said. ‘You’ve been a great help. We’ll let you get on with your day.’

‘What happened to Annabelle?’ he said, his voice rising, despite the effort. ‘What happened to her!’

In the hallway, Edith Jameson opened the door for them.

‘You didn’t know his condition, did you?’

‘No,’ Wynne said. ‘We didn’t.’

‘Well, now you do,’ she said. ‘And he had nothing to do with whatever has happened to Annabelle Anderson. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come back. I don’t want to upset him again.’

‘I understand,’ Wynne said.

‘He’s had a hard life,’ Edith said, tears forming in her eyes. ‘When he was born there were complications. I don’t know if it was that, but he was never like the other kids. And in the last few years he got this disease – motor neurone disease. I don’t know if it’s linked, or just a cruel twist of fate. But he hasn’t long left, and I don’t want you to disturb him again.’

‘We won’t,’ Wynne said. ‘And I apologize for upsetting him today. But we have to follow the enquiry where it takes us. We won’t bother you again though.’

‘If she’s OK, would you let me know?’ Edith said. ‘He would like to know that.’

‘Of course.’ Wynne backed out of the door. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Jameson.’

‘It’s not him,’ Dudek said as they walked to the car. ‘So what next?’