‘God, I’m sorry,’ she said and fished into her pocket for a tissue. ‘It’s been a really bad morning, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Please don’t hold what I said against me. My mother died two months ago, and I’ve just found out my brother, who had power of attorney, has systematically bled her savings dry, so I’m feeling more than a little angry and upset right now.’

And I thought my family had problems.

‘Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?’ I asked, then realised this wasn’t my turf. She smiled at the gesture and started to move towards the door.

‘I think that’s a probably a good idea. Come up to the staffroom, you must need one too.’

Smithy sidled up to me and spoke low, so Dr Hawkins wouldn’t hear. ‘This one’s yours, too damned unpredictable for me.’ I loved the fact that a man of Smithy’s size and disposition could be intimidated by a woman.

We were led into the corridor, where Smithy had to duck to avoid hitting his head on a shower head and emergency handle hanging from the ceiling. We walked past more locked freezers and climbed the stairs to the seventh floor. My head spun at the view, as the bank of windows alongside the metal stairwell highlighted the precipitous drop to the courtyard below. They didn’t have buildings this tall where I came from. The staffroom had the usual trappings of a communal watering hole – plenty of dirty dishes in the sink, in direct contravention of the, I thought, rather optimistic ‘Please clean up after yourself’ poster, complete with passive-aggressive smiley face.

‘Urgh, usual mess I’m afraid. You know what these mad scientists are like, can’t tie their own shoelaces, let alone clean up after themselves.’ She seemed to be trying very hard to undo the first impression she’d made earlier. ‘Help yourselves to a mug; the tea and coffee things are over here.’

Smithy took a bog-standard brown glass mug and started filling it up with his usual mix of one and a half teaspoons of coffee and three teaspoons of sugar. I picked up a plain purple ceramic job. I was about to toss in a tea bag when Dr Hawkins said, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh? Did I spill something?’ I asked, checking the bench and then the floor.

‘No, it’s just that,’ she pointed to the mug in my hand. ‘That was her mug.’

‘Rose-Marie’s?’

‘Yes.’

The mug suddenly felt heavier and I placed it back down on the bench with exaggerated care. ‘Do you have a place where her personal belongings are being kept?’

‘The police collected most of her things shortly after her death, but yes, there are a couple of things we’ve come across since that we’ve put in a box near her old desk.’

‘What sort of things?’