It would be the old address on the medical records, most likely. ‘I’ve moved,’ I said, distracted. ‘What doctors would have seen him? I mean, who would have noticed that he was . . . dead?’

It must have been a strange question, because his sandy eyebrows went up. ‘Well, if he was under observation, the neurology registrar would have seen him. Plus some nurses. If he went downhill quickly, it’s possible they didn’t notice. We’re so short-staffed at the moment. When he stopped breathing they would have rushed in to help, but been too late. I think that’s probably what happened. I’m very sorry.’

‘Right.’ My mind clicked and whirred. In that time he was left alone, apparently fine, that was when something must have happened. Could someone have killed him? But why? I thought of what I’d found in the office, the coded notes in the book, and the word blackmail rose to my mind, absurdly melodramatic. Was it even possible? If Conway was in on it, and maybe one or even two other people, could they have killed him and made it look like an accident? ‘Dr Holt . . . have you ever heard of doctors in this hospital having secrets? Things they wanted to hide?’

He really thought I was crazy now.

‘Gosh, I don’t know. Everyone has secrets, don’t they?’ He looked at me. ‘Mrs Sullivan . . . there are people you can talk to, you know. It’s very normal to be struggling. To be . . . confused about things.’

Was that what I was, confused? Or was I seeing clearly for the first time in years?

He went on, ‘You could always stay here, if you like. Have a rest.’

I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

He stood up, his shadow falling over me. ‘Just that – you seem a little distressed. There are people who can help. You don’t have to go home alone.’

‘I’m not alone,’ I lied. Did he mean I was crazy? He wanted to admit me as a patient? No way. It was just like with Patrick, and after the fire when I was younger. People kept trying to tell me this, that I was somehow unhinged, but I knew now that I wasn’t. In fact, the problem was that I was all too sane. I stirred, gathering my coat and bag. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘That’s – if you’re sure, Mrs Sullivan.’

‘Very sure.’

He clicked out of the screen on his computer, and for a second I saw that his Gmail account was open on there, and in it were several messages from a Suzanne Matthews.