When he’d worked as a cleaner he’d come upon ingrained dirt: the dirt of filthy shoes and filthy habits. Spillages, and the daily dropping of food that got ground into the fabric – no time to clean up properly, and no will to do so either. Let people drink in their own mess. This place, in contrast, was loved. Perhaps the cleaner was the owner, and his or her personal pride went into every careful stroke of the duster. How would he or she feel when the moment came? The guest in room twelve still hadn’t appeared, and the gentle knocks on the door still hadn’t roused him.

‘Was he by himself?’

‘Yes. Came by bus, or so he said. Said his plans had changed.’

‘Knock again.’

It would be way past checkout time, so they might suppose he’d disappeared as mysteriously as he’d arrived – they would have to look.

Michael sat with his eyes closed.

The manager would bring a duplicate key. What if Michael had left his own in the lock, so he couldn’t get it in? That would cause terrible inconvenience. The hotel staff would have to find a ladder, and put it up to the window, and if the curtains were undrawn they might see evidence of his presence, and realise he definitely hadn’t left. They would knock again, more loudly, and at last the decision would be made: they would have to drag the poor locksmith out, all the way from the nearest town. Ten minutes would pass as he jiggled Michael’s key onto the floor – no need to break down doors, this wasn’t an arrest. This was simply gaining access with a rising sense of dread, for everyone now knew the guest wasn’t sleeping, or wearing headphones. No: there was a dead man awaiting them, and the only uncertainty was what state he might be in.

In the bath, up to his nose in cold, red water?

Or does the water drain over ten hours, through a leaky plug? Who would pull him out, and how? What equipment could they bring to prevent the crazy comedy of his corpse slithering out of the tub and slapping the lino?

He put his head in his hands, but the thoughts uncoiled.

‘Stop the film,’ he wanted to say – but now he was remembering an old friend or acquaintance… someone he’d got chatting to, perhaps? She’d worked in the Salvation Army, and he recalled the lovely, serious slogan, Where there is need, there is the Salvation Army. Utterly devout, utterly committed – she had been summoned to places once the police and fire brigade had left the scene. She had been trained to break bones – to break arms and legs – so as to get corpses into body bags. That’s what she told him, because he had asked about her nights on call, and pumped her for the details.