‘I guess FullLife pay well,’ said Piotr, and Eva nodded but pulled her coat closer, keeping her arms crossed around her body. He’d always felt peeved that he didn’t get paid more – not quite a chip on the shoulder, but enough that he felt the need to let out a whistle when he saw something he couldn’t afford. It irritated her.

‘Do you think that’s why he worked there?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘So he believed in what he was doing?’

Eva thought about that for a moment. ‘Yes, I think he did. Or he must have done, to begin with. Number 38.’

Eva marched up the path and rang the bell. Together, they waited.

She checked her watch – it was gone ten. If he was here he surely had no intention of speaking to her. There was a letter box, silver against the deep blue wood of the door. She pressed the bell again. It made a ding-dong sound like Big Ben.

Certain no one would be there, she leaned down and pushed on the letter box, which opened easily against her fingers, and peered inside.

Two eyes peered back.

Eva gasped and stumbled off the red-tiled step she was standing on, falling backwards into Piotr.

‘There’s someone in there,’ she said, as the door opened a fraction.

‘Can I help you?’

It was a woman, mid-sixties, about her mum’s age. Just before she’d died. She was dressed in smart black trousers and a white shirt with a silk scarf tied around her neck.

‘I have to get to work soon, so if you’re selling—’

‘It’s Sunday morning,’ said Eva uselessly.

‘No, no.’ Piotr stepped towards the front door, holding out his hand and introducing himself. ‘We’re looking for James Quentin. Ms …?’

‘He’s not here.’ There was hostility in her tone, and she left his hand hanging.

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ Eva took over from Piotr.

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

‘Who are you?’ she said to Eva.

‘I’m a … I’m …’ She knew instinctively that to say she was a friend of James would be a problem. Something had happened, though she didn’t know exactly what.

‘We’re journalists,’ said Piotr, handing over his ID. ‘Researching an article on the latest generation of baby pouchers. Dr Quentin was supposed to meet us.’

‘He told you to come here?’

‘No. We don’t know where he is. He didn’t turn up to our meeting, so we’re looking for him.’

Eva noticed the cases stacked in the hall, along with black bags meant for charity or perhaps the dump – it looked a little like her own hall did, at the moment. But she knew from the woman’s straight back and sharp, brittle eyes this wasn’t packing done after someone had died. This was done after someone had left.

‘Did he leave a message?’ Piotr was saying. ‘Or did he tell you—’