Ren commandeers the armchair and points to a grotty two-seater opposite. Oli lowers herself onto it as he unashamedly brushes crumbs from his armrests onto the floor. ‘Shit!’ he exclaims.

She jumps a mile. ‘What?’

‘Do you want a drink?’ He leaps back to his feet and sways alarmingly. ‘I think I have some Coke.’ He looks around, uncertain. ‘Somewhere. I’m always forgetting my manners.’

‘No, no, I’m absolutely fine,’ Oli insists. ‘Honestly.’

‘Okay.’ He sinks back into the chair, rocking forward and clasping his hands together. His eyes flit around the room before fixing on her again. ‘So, you’re what? A journo?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she says, pulling out her notebook and a pen.

‘On TV?’ He squints at her doubtfully.

‘No, print. Newspapers.’

‘Newspapers,’ he echoes, as if he’s never heard the word before.

‘Ren, I really appreciate you speaking with me. I’m working on a story about what happened to Evelyn Stanley.’

‘Sure, yep.’ Lines furrow Ren’s wide forehead, and he sits up a little straighter. ‘Man, I was just thinking about that, I dunno, it must have been last week. What a trip. Feels like yesterday.’ His unfocused gaze fixes on the heater.

Oli hesitates. ‘Ren, you know that Alex Riboni was found dead earlier this week, right?’

‘Oh, yep.’ He laces his bony fingers. He’s still staring at the heater. ‘Mum told me. Alex, man. I liked her a lot.’

Oli can’t tell whether Ren is stoned or simply operates at a slower pace, or both, but she’s determined to mine his brain for whatever old information might be floating around in there. ‘Ren, can you tell me what you remember about the night Evelyn died?’

‘Sure, yep, no problem.’ He balances his bony elbows on his kneecaps. ‘We had dinner together. The girls wanted to cook for everyone.’

‘Did they often do that?’ asks Oli. ‘Cook for you guys?’

‘Matt’s dead,’ Ren replies brightly. ‘Did you know that? He fell off a roof when he was on a job a few years ago. I don’t know what happened, but someone told me. Can’t remember who. We went to his funeral together, me and Mum. Fuck it was sad.’

‘Yes, I can imagine, and I’m sorry,’ Oli says, meaning it.

Ren picks a scab on his elbow. ‘It’s just life.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘It sucks sometimes. And I hadn’t seen him for years. It’s weird how you’re sometimes only friends with people for a short time, isn’t it?’

She’s finding this roundabout conversation vaguely therapeutic: his childlike manner is oddly charming. ‘Did you speak to Evelyn on the night she died, at the party?’