‘What makes you ask that?’ Jane asked.

‘I saw you at lunchtime in the Hillman Hunter when I was walking Spud. My grandson told me if you ever see a deep red Hunter behind you, it’s wise to slow down as it’s probably a plainclothes police car.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Jane smiled, as everyone in the CID knew the Hillmans stuck out like a sore thumb.

‘Do you work locally?’

‘Yes. I’m a detective sergeant at Bromley.’

‘Not far to travel for work, then.’

‘Thankfully, no.’

He unscrewed the drop cap and asked Jane for the torch so he could examine the wires inside.

‘As I suspected, the bulb’s blowing because there’s a loose connection in the cap, which is causing an arc to jump across the contact rather than flowing through it.’

‘Is it a big job to repair it?’ Jane asked, wondering how much it might cost.

‘No. I just need to reconnect the live wire.’ He got a small screwdriver from the toolbox and secured the wire. ‘Do you have a spare bulb?’

She held up the blown bulb. ‘This was the last one I had.’

‘I came prepared.’ He smiled, removing a spare bulb from his toolbox and fitting it in the cap. He switched the main fuse on and tested the hallway light, which lit up instantly. ‘There you go . . . nice and bright now.’

‘Thank you so much. Are you an electrician?’

‘No. I’m a retired cab driver. But I’ve learned a lot about electrics and plumbing doing up my house over the years. Sorry to say this, but your fuse box and wiring is very old. I’d say it was fitted when the house was built in the mid-Thirties.’

‘Is it dangerous? The last thing I want is for the house to catch fire.’

‘You’d be best to get a qualified electrician to look at it. Edith, who lived here before you, was in her eighties and didn’t bother to update anything after her husband died twenty years ago.’

Jane nodded. ‘The estate agent did mention an elderly lady lived here for nearly forty years.’ Jane knew the house had been offered at a well-below-market price due to its antiquated state. It would have been sensible to get a full survey done, but she couldn’t afford it.

‘Poor Edith got dementia before she died.’

‘In a care home?’ Jane asked.

‘No, she had a heart attack in the living room. I had a key for the place and used to check on her a couple of times a day. Walked in to find her slumped in the armchair and cold as ice. Mind you, she made it to eighty-two, so it wasn’t a bad innings.’

‘Funnily enough, the estate agent never mentioned that,’ Jane said, unhappy at the thought that someone had died in the house.

‘I bet you see a lot of dead bodies as a detective,’ he said cheerily.

‘Quite a few. It’s all part of the job.’