The autopsy had not thrown up anything strange. The dead man had no fillings or previous surgeries – another piece of luck, as fillings could quite easily be traced to their country of origin – and he was in good health apart from the head injury, probably better than Patrick was, with all his secret after-work drinks. His head injury was not inconsistent with a car crash. And so with some tweaking of records – Conway hinted that a few other people at the hospital had been implicated too – this man became Patrick, and he, as the mystery man, made a miraculous recovery and discharged himself.

‘But didn’t anyone notice?’ I could hardly believe this tale. ‘The nurses, the ICU doctors?’

He shrugged. ‘They use so many agency staff now. From all over, they are. Hardly speak English some of them, and they come and go every day. No one asked.’

I thought of that poor man, dying alone in a strange place, buried in someone else’s grave. Surely someone out there was looking for him? And Patrick, slipping out of the country on a fake passport. These loopholes didn’t exist nowadays, surely? But to be caught would have required someone to do their job, someone to be paying attention. And no one was. Not even me. I’d been so poleaxed with grief I hadn’t even thought it might not be him. Why would I?

After he finished telling me the story, I stood up, surreptitiously wiping the glass I’d used on my sleeve. I’d worn a head scarf that day, ostensibly to shield my face from the cold air, but it was also good for stopping hairs falling on to his grotty carpet – though I imagined it hadn’t been hoovered in years, so it wouldn’t be too hard to explain if they did find one of mine. When he left the room to get the water, with my gloves still on I’d subtly turned on the knob on the side of the gas fire, meaning it was already leaking out a small amount of toxic fumes. I’d noticed that the old-fashioned windows were painted shut, the room stuffy and unventilated. If he sat here all night breathing it in, he would die. If he lit the fire, or even a cigarette, the room would go up in flames.

‘Goodbye, James,’ I said when I left, now that he had explained it all and I finally believed him. On my way past, I slipped the cheque out of the envelope, knowing he wouldn’t look that night, not when he was halfway down the whisky bottle already. I meant goodbye for ever. He knew who I was, and who Suzi was and where we both lived. He was an unacceptable risk to us, to the baby. And besides, I felt the world was better off without him.