Daneman’s flat was located on the first floor. As Jazz opened the door and stepped inside, she smelled old books again, and damp.

The curtains in the sitting room were closed and Jazz walked across the gloom to open them. Daylight flooded the spacious, but rather oppressive room.

It was painted a dull bottle green and a bookshelf lined the length of one wall. The other walls were covered with paintings hung randomly, with no attempt made at placing them to their best advantage.

‘Obviously not a man interested in interior design,’ commented Miles. ‘Looks like this place hasn’t been touched since he inherited it.’

‘No.’ Jazz walked over to the grand piano set in front of the long sash windows, which overlooked the narrow strip of communal gardens at the back of the block. A desk was set in the corner, piled with neat stacks of books. An old leather chair was placed by the antiquated gas fire.

‘This is more a study than a comfortable sitting room.’ She picked up a plastic wallet containing a photocopy of a Latin manuscript from the desk. ‘I’d guess this is where Daneman did his translation work. Perhaps he came here during the long school holidays. Right, get started on his desk, will you?’

‘Right you are, Ma’am.’

Jazz wandered down the corridor and saw the galley kitchen, its units so old they were back in fashion, the bathroom with its cracked iron bath, two trickles of green limescale indelibly etched into the enamel behind the taps. At the end of the corridor was a spartan bedroom containing a double bed with a tartan rug thrown across the bottom of it. An austere mahogany tallboy sat against the wall, a matching dressing table set under the window – a clothes brush being the only nod to vanity laid on the surface in front of the mirror.

Placed on the bedside table was a large photograph.

Jazz picked it up. She studied it, recognising it was of the same young girl in the faded photograph she had found in Hugh’s cottage.

But this time, the features were much clearer. And whoever she was, she was beautiful. Curly blonde hair falling to just above her shoulders, blue eyes and an elegant aquiline nose set above rosebud lips. Jazz reckoned she must be in her late teens. She sat down on the bed, turned the frame over and removed the hardboard backing.

There, on the reverse of the photograph, was an inscription.

June 59

To my darling Hugh,

Carpe diem!

And we do!

All my love as always,

Cory x

She took the photograph carefully out of the frame, and walked back into the sitting room.

‘Find anything?’ Miles asked. He was on his knees surrounded by papers.

‘Only this.’ She handed him the photograph.

Miles studied it. ‘The same girl. A lover perhaps?’

‘I’d imagine so.’ Jazz took an exhibit wallet from her briefcase and stowed it inside. ‘There’s an inscription on the back dated fifty-nine. Whoever she is, it all took place a long time ago.’