Will wondered, now, if he should turn and leave the guesthouse, but he wasn’t sure he’d find anywhere else to stay at this time of the evening on a miserable February Thursday. So he stood his ground, keeping his expression neutral.

‘How is Daisy?’ he asked.

‘She’s all right. Done well for herself, all things considered.’ Mr Bradshaw sniffed. ‘You’re a writer then, are you? What sort of books do you write?’

‘True crime. Unsolved mysteries.’

‘Well, I know what’s brought you back here then.’ The old man tugged at his earlobe. ‘Talk of the town it is. I’ve got a single room available. It’s at the top of the stairs.’

‘That sounds ideal.’

‘It’s seventy pounds a night.’

‘Seventy?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Does that include breakfast?’

‘As long as you’re up at half past seven.’

Will had no choice but to concur.

‘Follow me,’ said Mr Bradshaw, and he headed off up the stairs, shoulders hunched, holding onto the banister, struggling but trying to give the impression of being fully fit and strong. There was a small landing on the first floor. The light was dim, the carpet busy, and it clashed with the wallpaper, its pattern being floral and the wallpaper geometric, although both were in various shades of orange and brown. Framed photographs of Daisy smiling unconvincingly as a child were hung on the wall, each a little lower than its neighbour, echoing the stepping of the stairs.

Mr Bradshaw took a deep breath and set off up the next flight. At the top, he stopped again to catch his breath then straightened up.

‘Here we are then,’ he said, turning a ceramic door knob and pushing open a door that sloped at the top to accommodate the pitch of the roof. ‘It’s not the height of luxury but I’ve had no complaints.’

Will stepped into a small attic room. The door to the connected bathroom was ajar. The predominant smell was pine toilet cleaner with an undercurrent of damp.

‘It’s great,’ said Will.

‘The décor was Eileen’s choice. She was very fond of flowers.’

‘So I see.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Bradshaw, surveying the room. ‘It’s all very Eileen.’

He took off his glasses, took a handkerchief out of his pocket with which he wiped the lenses, then he replaced them on his nose.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘There’s one more thing we need to get clear from the offset. I want you to understand that I don’t want you writing anything about this establishment.’

‘What do you mean?’