He didn’t look impressed with this plan and Irene wished powerfully that she hadn’t agreed to it. What if he came back at a later date and robbed Michael? It would be all her fault. A panicky feeling was growing inside her, but it felt too late to do anything now. The boy – man, she should say – stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer on the table in the manner of someone used to this space, and said, ‘Come on, then. But there’d better not be no repercussions for me.’

Rowan put her hand on his upper arm and gave a sugary smile. ‘There won’t be, darling, I promise,’ she said.

They trooped out of Rowan’s flat and climbed to the next floor. Someone was cooking a curry in the building and it smelled quite appealing, but Irene’s heart was thumping too hard for her to focus. She had never done anything illegal before. Whatever the justifications she might have for being involved in this, there was no doubt it was a criminal offence.

Rowan and Dex looked around and then Irene nodded assent. Irene expected him to produce some manner of complex device, spiky with lock-picking tools, but he merely produced a long, bent hair pin and got down on his knees, and then began to fiddle and poke about in the hole.

It seemed like only moments later that he was shoving the door and saying, ‘There you go.’ Was it really that easy? Irene feared she would never be safe again.

Rowan pulled him towards her and kissed him on the cheek. He received it without any sign of either pleasure or displeasure and said, ‘Right, I’ve got a job over in Huntingdon and need to get going. You should be able to pull it locked after you’re done.’

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ said Rowan, ‘see you Friday?’ She seemed to glow a little around the edges now. What a funny thing to take pride in, Irene thought, that your son knew how to break into other people’s properties. Then the irony of this – her taking a superior stance on sons – curdled in her stomach.

Dex grunted his goodbye and clattered down the stairs.

Rowan’s cheeks were pink now. Irene had the uncomfortable feeling that she was enjoying this too much.

‘You want to go in first?’ said Rowan.

Irene nodded and headed into the dimly lit room. A sweet-rotten smell hit the back of her throat and for a dizzying moment she was suffused with primal horror. She forced herself to slap at the wall by the door for a light switch and, as the room filled with a sickly white glow from a single overhead bulb, she saw with a flood of relief that there was no one here. Her son hadn’t been left like some old rubbish, alone. Dead.