It had been a long few days, and the couch plus TV combo had whispered sweet nothings in his ear while he ate a hurried dinner from a tray on his lap, but he had given his word that he would be there tonight. He opted for a plain black V-neck sweater, mainly because he wouldn’t have to iron it. His mum used to iron his dad’s socks, never mind the rest of the wardrobe. He was more of a ‘hang it up till you need it’ kind of guy. The faint creasing on every shirt in sight made him think of Holly. That was one habit that she had tried and failed to break him out of.

He glanced over to his bedside table, eyes lingering on the picture from their wedding day. Facing each other, her with a hint of a smile, looking up into his eyes, both oblivious of the camera pointed at them. He’d come close to putting it in the drawer a few times. Looking at it brought back the sights and sounds of the day, bittersweet pleasure and pain in varying degrees.

He heard a low throaty rumbling, and looked down to see Demetrious the cat weaving in and out of his legs.

‘Be with you in two seconds, buddy.’

He slid his phone into one pocket and his wallet into the other. Demetrious raised his purring another notch on the Richter scale. Even the bloody cat made him think of her. Holly had rescued him from the local shelter, claiming she needed company when he was working long shifts. He never did learn how to say no to her.

‘OK, OK, I get the hint. Let’s go.’

He headed into the kitchen, the cat keeping within a few paces, herding him in the right direction. He opened the cupboard door and looked blankly at the meagre array of tins and packets.

Shit, the shopping! Bugger!

He had forgotten to swing by Tesco on the way home. That meant there was no milk for cereal or tea in the morning, either. He spotted his contingency plan and grabbed a tin of sardines in brine, drained them in the sink and dumped them into the blue plastic bowl on the floor.

Demetrious gave one suspicious sniff, then forgot all about Porter and only had eyes for dinner. Porter topped up the neighbouring bowl with water from the tap, and left Demetrious to it. He left the small lamp on by the side of the sofa and headed out, hoping it would not be too late a night.

The hooded glow of the desk lamp made shadow puppets of James Bolton’s hands against the far wall as he folded his arms, staring at the back of Alexander Locke’s chair. His boss hadn’t spoken since acknowledging the knock on the door, but the rich hint of cigar smoke he wore like aftershave confirmed he was there.