Sam Kombothekra was finding it hard to concentrate on the questions he wanted to ask Kim Tribbeck’s husband. Gabriel Kearns’s rented one-bedroom flat in the Kornbluth Tower in Rawndesley was unlike any living space Sam had seen before. Every object his eye landed on looked either rare and beautiful or intimidatingly expensive – a glossy orange curve-edged coffee machine; a leather jacket with a phoenix emblem on the back; original oil paintings, mostly fruit-in-bowl still lifes – but everything was in the wrong place. The leather jacket was slung across the kitchen sink; the twelve or so paintings were laid out like floor tiles on one side of the living room; the coffee machine was in the corner of the bathroom, balanced on a blue-painted wooden crate that was playing the role of a table. Also on the crate was a yellow pottery mug with a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts stuffed into it.

On a black-and-white-striped rug in the living room was something Sam at first mistook for an ornate oriental teapot: a brown glass thing with two waists, three curved bobbly bits, and a silver spout-type thing protruding from its side. It looked like the kind of contraption from which a genie might emerge to grant you three wishes. Seconds later, Sam recognised it for what it was: a more elaborate than usual drug-taking device. A bong, he supposed you’d have to call it, though no other bong he’d seen looked so much like a work of irreplaceable art. The glass was subtly patterned; you had to look closely to see the tiny leaves, birds and flowers. It was a beautiful object. Shame about its function. As the father of two boys, Sam sometimes felt as if he spent all his spare time telling his sons how important it was that they never touch drugs. Would they listen? Probably not.

Gabriel Kearns’s flat, unlike the homes of most bong owners, did not reek of cannabis. It smelled faintly of spices – nutmeg and cinnamon. The scent had to be artificial, but Sam could see no oil burner or air freshener.

Kearns reappeared in a new outfit: red jogging bottoms and a white zip-up sports top with a logo on it that Sam didn’t recognise. Eye-wateringly expensive, no doubt. Sam tried not to disapprove of the bare feet. When he’d let Sam into his flat, Kearns had been wearing brown jeans, a striped shirt and brown suede shoes. He’d vanished into his bedroom almost immediately, calling out, ‘Won’t be long!’ Evidently he thought sportswear was more suitable for a police interview.

‘Right, then.’ Kearns arranged himself in a cross-legged position on his lounge floor. ‘I hope you got yourself a drink while I was in the shower. You and I have serious business to do today.’