‘Did she owe money?’

‘Not that I know of.’

He frowns then, tapping his pen against his notebook, his freckles standing out against his skin. ‘But you say nothing was taken.’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘And there were no signs of forced entry.’ He scribbles something down. ‘She must have opened the door to her attacker at some point on Thursday morning.’

I think of Aunt Peg, shuffling along the hallway in her worn slippers, her face wreathed in a welcome smile, expecting the meter man or Pearline, or another friend from the estate, and bow my head. Suspicion whispers in my ear.

The detective – Marvin Lyle – shifts about on the edge of Pearline’s best armchair. He mutters something about family liaison officers – I tell him I don’t want a fuss, strangers at my side – and formal identification.

‘We – uh – how would you feel about this? You won’t have to move from the sofa, we can show you a photograph of your aunt, or perhaps via a video link, if that makes you feel more comfortable.’

‘I want to see her,’ I say. ‘I want to say goodbye.’

He stops what he’s doing then, glances up at me. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Her injuries were – um – extensive.’

But I’ve made up my mind.

Later, we’re standing outside the hospital mortuary in Whitechapel. Pearline offered to come with me but she’s already had so much to deal with and it’s been Peg and I for so long, this feels like the right thing to do.

They’ve moved her body to the Chapel of Rest, a small brick room next to the morgue. I’ve been here before, to interview a family whose son was killed in a train crash caused by a signal error. They’d insisted on coming here but they weren’t allowed to see him because there was nothing much of his remains left to see.

His parents were angry, vocal, desperate to keep his memory alive. A knot of relatives had gathered outside, crying and shouting. A need to be heard. Some families are like that. Driven to vocalize their hurt, advocate for their dead, not wanting to let them down, or for their passing to be nothing more than a footnote in history. Others withdraw into silence, the glare of the public gaze like a scald on exposed skin.

That boy was identified by his teeth. We’re all flesh and bone in the end.

The Chapel of Rest smells of nothing except the faintest scent of cleaning fluid. A display of dusty silk flowers sits on the windowsill. No religious iconography. No music. The temperature is cool, to preserve the body.

‘I’m afraid you can’t touch her,’ says DC Lyle, his apology in the shape of his shoulders, the clasping together of his hands. ‘Forensics haven’t finished yet.’