‘I think that bang on the head did something to her. She’s not right. Always on the phone, always complaining, demanding. Do this, do that. And so picky about tenants. My God, you’d think it was a ten-thousand-a-month property.’

‘I expect she’s anxious. Being assaulted does that to you.’

Eva flushes. ‘Well, I know. But she’s always talking like this is a short-term thing, like she’s coming back. There’s some man. But I think he’s messing her around.’

‘You know a lot about her.’ More than me, it would seem. Didn’t Kai mention something? Well, good luck to her. I hope she finds happiness.

Eva smirks. ‘People talk to me. In this job it is like being a hairdresser. A friendly face, someone who does not judge. She says this man loves her, but she has to wait for everything to be right.’ She shrugs and laughs. ‘Sounds to me like he’s trying to get off the hook. Maybe he has a wife.’

The house is at the end of an attractive Victorian terrace, safely within the catchment for Cedar Heights school. It’s unmodernized and brimming with potential. I push all my worries aside and get stuck in, enjoying myself immensely. My experience means that I have a nose for problems and an instinctive feel for which of them are deal-breakers and which can be used as leverage for a price reduction. I make notes and I ask questions; I tease up corners of carpets and peel back wallpaper; I check the state of the neighbouring gardens from an upstairs window. Bar one or two letting the side down with clapped-out barbecues and overgrown lawns, they are well kept and most show signs that there’s a family in occupation; a small goalpost here, a slide or Wendy house there. It’s perfect.

I finish my viewing and arrange to come back with Voytek, the builder Nick and I used on Burnside Road, at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Eva has another appointment at the house, so I walk back alone. At Camomile Avenue it looks like Alex and Anna have gone, their rented van replaced by one for a cleaning service. So that’s it, for the time being at least. I stroll home, wondering about the boyfriend. She’s kept him close to her chest; but then she’s good at that. Even the arrest of Angus Moody hasn’t shaken my conviction that she’s involved in Nick’s disappearance. Marsh’s lack of interest in pursuing that line of inquiry infuriates me. What on earth would it take to make him sit up and pay attention? Nothing short of a full confession, I suspect.