‘You say the room looked lived in?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So nothing you saw suggested to you that people might recently have moved in?’

‘No. Such as?’

‘Packing crates, maybe pictures leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up? Picture hooks, a hammer? Cardboard boxes with “dining room” written on them?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

Dunning retrieved the photograph, replaced it in his file. ‘What next?’ Proust asked.

The bad feeling Simon had about all this intensified with each question. ‘I went to get a kebab from a takeaway I’d passed on the way in—don’t ask me where or what it was called. Junction of Ruskington Road and Muswell Hill Road, turn right, keep going for about four hundred yards or so. I got my kebab, then I drove back to Ruskington Road, sat in my car and ate it, waiting for Seed to come back.’

‘In effect, you staked out Mr Seed’s car, and 23 Ruskington Road,’ said Proust.

‘Yes.’

‘Did Mr Seed return?’

‘Yes, sir. At about half past nine. He and the woman I’d seen at the meeting, the speaker with the tied-back brown hair, they walked up the road together towards the house—number 23.’

‘Were they speaking as they walked?’ asked Dunning.

‘She was.’

‘Did you hear any of what she said?’

‘No.’

‘Her tone? Could you gauge her mood?’

‘Good,’ said Simon without hesitation. ‘She was prattling on, like people do when they’re happy or excited. They stopped by Seed’s car and he opened the boot, took something out . . .’

‘What?’ Dunning pounced.

‘I couldn’t see—there was a van in the way. Whatever it was, he carried it into number 23. The woman unlocked the door and opened it for him, and they both went in. A light went on in that window, the one you were asking about. I moved my car, drew level with the house to try and see in, but I had to move after a few seconds—there were cars coming up behind me. There’s traffic parked along both sides of Ruskington Road, so overtaking’s impossible. All I saw before I had to move was the woman drawing the curtains, still talking, and Seed standing behind her.’ Simon looked at Dunning. ‘After that, I called it a night, drove back home.’ He cleared his throat, realising he’d inadvertently lied. ‘Actually, I . . . I drove to Sergeant Zailer’s house.’

‘Does the name Len Smith mean anything to you?’ asked Dunning.

‘No.’ Simon had had enough. This man was a detective, like him. Cooperation ought to work both ways. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen at the house after I left?’

Dunning produced another photograph from his file and thrust it in front of Simon’s face. ‘Have you seen this person before? ’

Simon found himself staring at a heavily made-up woman with short hair that seemed to sweep back from her face in waves. It was a completely different look, but he recognised her all the same. ‘Yeah. It’s her, the speaker from Quaker Quest.’ Olive Oyl.