Finally, they moved to the top storey and entered a room which ran the length of the house, with windows to both east and west giving a panorama of the City. Only here did Dalgliesh begin to feel strongly that he was in mental touch with the owner. In this room she had lived, worked, rested, watched television, listened to music, needing no one and nothing that was not within those four walls. One was almost completely covered with an elegantly carved bookcase with adjustable shelves. He saw that it had been important to her, as it was to him, that books should neatly fit the height of the shelves. Her mahogany desk was to the left of the bookcase and looked Edwardian. It was practical rather than decorative, with drawers on each side, the right ones locked. Above was a shelf holding a rack of box files. On the opposite side of the room was a comfortable sofa with cushions, an easy chair facing the television with a small footstool, and to the right of the black Victorian grate, a high-backed armchair. The stereo equipment was modern but unobtrusive. To the left of the window there was a small refrigerator with a tray on top holding an electric percolator, a coffee grinder and a single mug. Here, with a tap in the bathroom one storey below, she could make herself a drink without having to go down three flights to the kitchen. Not an easy house to live in, but it was one in which he, too, could have felt at home. He and Kate moved about the room without speaking. He saw that the east-facing window gave access to a small wrought-iron balcony with iron steps leading upwards to the roof. He opened the window to the cold freshness of the morning and climbed up. Kate didn’t follow.