Jenny touched the soft dralon on the back of the sofa, still as immaculate as the day she’d bought it. She swept her eyes round the room, noting the big TV in the corner she’d bought outright only recently for a couple of hundred pounds, after years of renting one.

Everything in this bungalow had been paid for by her. Legs feeling wobbly again, Jenny perched on the arm of the sofa.

There had been male suitors over the years. Jenny knew she’d never been a beauty, but she’d certainly managed to attract men.

Perhaps the fact they knew her heart belonged elsewhere made the thrill of the chase more exciting. One suitor had been very persistent, couldn’t understand why she had refused to accept his proposal of marriage.

She thought how life could have been so much easier if she had. She’d have shared the struggles and burdens of life, had a shoulder to cry on when things went wrong, but the petulant refusal to accept anyone other than the one man she had wanted made that an impossibility.

Jenny forgot about the boiled kettle and went across to the drinks trolley that sat under the window. Four bottles stood upright like sentries. She occasionally took a small sherry on a Sunday, but as guests rarely visited, the port, the brandy and the whisky, all Christmas gifts from Mr Jones, had remained untouched.

Knowing brandy was good for shock, Jenny unscrewed the top with her strong, capable hands. She poured a small amount into one of the glass tumblers that sat on the trolley in front of the bottles, and took a gulp.

The brandy burned her throat, its strength making her gag. But it felt good and comforting as it slid down into her stomach, so she took another.

She walked across to the inlaid mahogany sideboard, which had once been her mother’s and was the only thing of real value she owned. She opened the left-hand drawer and felt at the back for the old brown envelope. The familiar roughness told her she’d found it. Sitting down on the sofa, she slid the contents out.

It had been the most important piece of deception she’d ever practised, the photograph providing years of comfort, enabling her to look at leisure at the greatest achievement of her life.

Jenny put the photograph back in the envelope.

And stared sorrowfully into the distance as she realised her last link with the past was gone.

Alistair Miles studied the louche group of fourteen young men and women sitting in front of him. Even though they were all in uniform, most of them looked as if they’d made a concerted effort to look scruffy and unkempt. There wasn’t a neatly fastened tie or a polished shoe between the lot of them.

Christ, I sound like my father, Miles acknowledged to himself.

‘Okay, boys and girls, thanks for your time. I’m sure you all know what this is about.’ Miles perched on Sebastian Frederiks’s desk and glanced at the sea of faces in front of him. ‘Apparently, all of you were in the pub with Charlie on the night he died. Is that right?’