‘ But that’s just minutes from here, officer.’

‘ It was instant, Mr Adams. She won’t have suffered.’

‘ My daughters … they’ll be devastated.’

I run back up the hallway, past my mother’s smiling photo. When I reach the safety of my yellow bedroom I flop down on the bed and close my eyes. I’m back in the kitchen. It’s morning. Mum is making toast and jam and listening to Terry Wogan. Focus on that, I tell myself, focus on it hard enough and maybe you’ll be able to bring her back.

16. Then

May 2018

‘The house belonged to Magda Ivanov, the famous Russian artist,’ says the estate agent as she opens the door to a vast studio. ‘She died last year.’

I stand in the doorway and sniff the air, the smell of oil paint and turps still lingering though the room has been cleared.

The house, a mid-nineteenth-century terrace on Glebe Place, had popped up on the app when I logged on this morning. It had been a while since I’d had my last viewing fix and this house, just a couple of minutes’ walk from the office, had piqued my interest. Like all the other ones, it began with a gut feeling. When I saw the photo of this house, with its ivy-clad facade, secret-garden roof terrace and rose-pink door, I knew I had to go and experience it for myself.

‘So, you’re an art collector, Miss Holmes?’

I smile at the estate agent, a middle-aged, birdlike woman called Melanie, and nod my head.

‘I’ve invested in a few pieces, yes,’ I say as she guides me out of the room and into the hallway. ‘I’m always on the lookout for early Grimshaw sketches though they’re as rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t heard of that artist,’ says Melanie, consulting her brochure. ‘Now, shall we take a look at the kitchen?’

Twenty minutes later, the tour over, I say goodbye to Melanie and watch as she drives away in her silver Audi TT. She has been reassured that Miss Monica Holmes, art collector and hedge-fund manager, will be in touch shortly to confirm whether or not she plans to make an offer.

As I walk back to the office I slip my hand in my pocket and rub the small, wooden doorstop I had taken from the hallway as I waited for Melanie to lock the roof-terrace door. This can take pride of place in the house Connor and I buy, I think to myself, as I walk through the entrance of Luna London and head to the lift. It will be a little good-luck charm, a reminder of what I can achieve if I put my mind to it.