‘You’re going back to London?’

‘If that’s okay with you. Soon as the rental’s here. I can be back in a mere three hours if you need me.’

‘I’ll keep in touch. If nothing breaks beforehand, I’ll see you here on Monday morning.’

‘Righto. Have a good weekend.’

‘And you. I’ll catch you later.’ Jazz nodded a goodbye as she left the room.

The SOCOs were just leaving as Jazz arrived at Daneman’s cottage.

‘Find anything?’ she asked Shirley.

‘Nothing of startling interest, but we’ve taken all the usual samples,’ Shirley said, passing Jazz the key to the front door.

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘Bye, Ma’am.’ Shirley nodded and climbed into her van.

Jazz put the key in the lock and reopened the door to Hugh Daneman’s house. She’d always found it eerie going to the home of the deceased, who had only recently occupied it as a living, breathing person, and was now a lifeless corpse lying on a slab in a morgue.

Jazz wandered to the overflowing shelves crammed with old, leather-bound books. She pulled one out. It was in Latin and as she turned the yellowing pages, the distinctive, musty smell of old paper wafted to her nostrils.

She replaced the book, then wandered over to Hugh’s leather-topped desk and pulled open the drawers.

Everything inside them was immaculately arranged. Stationary supplies: headed notepaper, pens, ink, pencils and rubbers lay with military precision within. It looked as if the drawers had been cleaned out recently. She’d been hoping to find an address book but there was none to be seen.

In the central drawer, there was a bunch of keys, and an envelope.

Jazz read the address on the label.

‘Flat 4, 9 Sheffield Terrace, W8.’

She knew immediately where that was, in an upmarket residential area of Kensington.

Opening the envelope, she found the name and address of a London solicitor written in Hugh’s immaculate italics.

It was as if this had been left here for her to find.

Taking herself up the narrow stairs, she went into the larger of the two bedrooms and found everything neat and tidy. She looked through the drawers, most of which were empty, and opened the wardrobe to find only three suits hanging inside.

As she wandered downstairs, Jazz was now sure Hugh Daneman had not only planned to take his own life, but had spent time beforehand tidying up his affairs. There was not a hint in this house of the usual common detritus that went hand in hand with being alive.

Jazz kneeled by the fire. It had obviously been substantial, as the pile of ash was large. Sifting through the grate, she found a number of small pieces of charred paper.

Looked like Daneman had lit a fire and burned anything he didn’t want strangers to find.

She’d take a trip down to London first thing tomorrow morning.

Jazz left the house, the familiar feeling of wishing the walls could talk and tell her their secrets strong in her mind.