Alec glanced up from his desk to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, sighing as he did so. Eleven minutes remained until the hour. He clicked his pen and carefully aligned it beside his pocket diary where this meeting had been jotted down for nine o’clock on the dot, not a second before or after.

‘That is disappointing,’ Alec whispered under his breath.

The hours of the day had been mapped out like a journey. That was, after all, the whole purpose of keeping a diary. Any delays or detours, such as this, made Alec uneasy. And uneasy men made mistakes. Too much time had been invested in this transaction to falter now.

He patted down his grey shirt and straightened its collar, pinching its stays in place. It was without fault. Smooth and sharp in all the right places. Lara, Alec’s housekeeper, as per his request, had ironed it with due care the prior evening. The dear girl had an alchemist’s touch – like her mother before her – making golden the simplest chore.

Again, the doorbell rang. So long had it been since he received a visitor, Alec had forgotten its two-note melody and how much he disliked it. The sound lingered as if it were now trapped in the room like a filthy insect, flitting against the study’s many windows and buzzing by his ear. He would make a note to have it uninstalled.

‘You’ve arrived earlier than you were expected,’ Alec muttered, frowning at the door as he tugged a cuff over his slender wrist, ‘and earlier than you’re welcome. You will wait.’

No punctuality. No patience. For the sake of their transaction, Alec swallowed down his umbrage like a chalky pill. One more ring of that bell, however, and he might not have been so forgiving.

The room held no mirrors, and so he stepped by a framed landscape to consult his reflection. His eyes were met with that old familiar paleness. Ghostlike in the glass. Too many years with too few fond memories to add any colour to his cheeks – grey, even in the morning light when colours blossomed in the darkest places. Nothing ever changed and yet Alec had aged regardless – in this room, in this house – as one entombed ante-mortem. His father had a lot to answer for.

When he opened the front door, Detective Eamon Barry had his broad back turned to him, facing the grounds of the estate. A plastic folder was held in one hand. The other scratched around his neck as though shame were an itch that a man could dig out with his fingernails.

‘Doctor Sparling?’ he asked, as though Alec hadn’t met his expectations.

‘Yes,’ he replied, standing aside, gesturing for the man to enter. ‘You’re early, Detective. Did we not arrange this meeting for nine o’clock?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Barry stammered. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Are you aware of the significance of the number nine?’