‘A month ago. He came to borrow some money.’ She laughed. ‘Borrow – that’s a good one! His father died two years ago and it was easier for my son to come home and ask for money – to borrow money – after that. When his father was alive, it was difficult. Arguments. Refusals. Raised voices. Tearful promises to change his ways. You can imagine. And things disappeared. A watch left by a bedside. Money in a wallet. That made relations with his father very difficult. But he never stole from me. Not from me. And some do, I know. Some heroin addicts – and my son was certainly a heroin addict – do steal from the people who love them most.’

I sipped my tea. Already Adam Jones had become more than a homeless junkie found dead in an alley, more than a naked corpse on a freezing bed of stainless steel. He had become somebody’s son.

‘And I saw him last night,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘My son. Adam. In my dreams. Or in my sleep. But it didn’t feel like a dream. He was very sad. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’ She laughed again. The dog sat up, and then settled. ‘Am I going dotty in my old age?’

‘I think it happens all the time,’ I said. ‘A loved one appearing in a dream. Especially at the start. Especially when you have just lost them. I think it takes a while before the dead rest easy.’

She looked at me. ‘I get so tired,’ she said. She gestured impatiently at her headscarf. ‘All this business.’

I nodded.

‘Perhaps you’re not eating as you should, Mrs Jones,’ I said. I hesitated for a moment. ‘Chemotherapy makes food taste awful.’

‘Yes, it does,’ she said. ‘They tell you about the hair loss and the nausea. Everyone knows about that. But they don’t warn you about what it does to your sense of taste.’ She looked at me levelly. ‘You seem to know something about the subject.’

‘Not really. My grandmother went through the same thing. But it was a long time ago.’

‘You must have been close to your grandmother.’

‘She brought me up,’ I said. ‘She raised me. After my parents died. She was more like my mother.’

‘I see. Your grandmother sounds like a wonderful woman.’

‘She was the kindest person I’ve ever met,’ I said.

‘And then she died.’

‘Yes. Please tell me some more about Adam. Did he have enemies?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Somebody killed him. Somebody did that to him. But he was a gentle boy. Everyone loved him. Everyone who ever met him. As far as I know.’

‘Mrs Jones, most murder victims know their killer. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm Adam? When he came home, did he talk about his money problems? Money that he owed? Outstanding debts?’