‘Mrs Copeland,’ said Rowan. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.’

Irene attempted a stiff smile. She longed to get up and leave. But she needed to know what Michael had got himself into.

‘It’s alright, really,’ she said. ‘I know he had theories about this. But he didn’t have anything to go on and the police weren’t really all that interested.’ She sighed and forced herself to meet Rowan’s concerned frown. ‘Do you know what, well, what set this off?’

Rowan shook her head. One of the snaky masses held back by her scarf fell over her face and she pushed it back.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘He didn’t tell me anything other than he felt that he was finally about to uncover, well, what really happened to Liam.’

Irene couldn’t help wincing at these words, so easily tossed into the room.

Then something came to her.

‘Rowan,’ she said, ‘do you have a key to his flat?’

Rowan looked down at her stubby hands, which were knobbly with silver rings, and shook her head again. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘We spent a lot of time in here. More comfortable, you know.’ Rowan nodded towards what was presumably a bedroom.

‘Right,’ said Irene quickly, in case the other woman elaborated further. Her chest ached with the fruitlessness of her task. She shuffled forward to begin the process of leaving this sagging sofa. ‘I suppose in that case I’d better—’

‘Look, Mrs Copeland …’ Rowan was leaning forward again, her hands now clasped between her knees. ‘I hope this won’t seem out of order, but I’m worried too. I’m not sure we really have good reason to go to the police – not yet – but, well, what would you think about me helping you gain access to his room?’

Irene stared back at the other woman. The oddly formal words – ‘gain access’ – immediately semaphored some kind of underhand means. She thought for a moment. If Michael came back and found them breaking into his room, he might take such grave offence that it could damage their relationship for good. Her heart rate speeded up uncomfortably. But what other option did she have?

‘Yes alright,’ she said. ‘What do you intend to do?’

It took three-quarters of an hour for Rowan’s son to arrive. He was a ratty-faced youth in his twenties, wearing a red and yellow top with the DHL delivery company logo on it. He was unsmiling as he came into the room, dragging deeply on a cigarette, and regarded Irene without much curiosity.

‘This is Michael’s mum, Dex,’ said Rowan. ‘She’s worried about him, too, and we think it might be a good idea if we could have a little … peek in his room.’

‘Yeah,’ replied the boy. ‘You said.’