She completed her lists and set about putting names to the numbers. The incoming column was two shorter than the outgoing because strictly speaking the handset recorded calls, not numbers, so those made from behind large company switchboards came up as ‘number unavailable’.

The second most recent incoming call was from Galt Linklater yesterday. She saw the number twice on the outgoing list and put the initials next to each instance. This prompted her to check Hayden-Murray’s number too, which accounted for more listings in either column.

Once she had subtracted her call to Jim’s daughter Angela, she was left with four incoming and five outgoing numbers she still had to identify. For what it was worth, she put them all into Google, which identified one more, another law firm that Jim must have done some work for.

Her next task would be to cross-refer them against any numbers found in her list of recent case files. After that, if she still had a few question marks, she’d have to just try phoning them and asking, though this really would be the last resort. If they were up to no good, they were hardly going to cooperate. Actually, even if they were perfectly innocent, who would let a stranger put a name to their number in this day and age, unless they were lonely and wanted to spend a lot of time talking to double-glazing salesmen and debt consolidators.

She looked at the stack of files. Cold-calling suddenly seemed a more appealing prospect than sifting through that lot, but at least it would keep her occupied, keep her kidding herself that she was engaged in a purpose.

She made herself a cup of tea and got busy: methodical, plodding, dull.

She was about forty minutes in when she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor. It didn’t so much distract her from her task as almost yank her from her chair.

He was just standing there like he had materialised halfway into the office. Jasmine shuddered and recoiled, causing the chair to roll back on its wheels, and the visitor looked a little startled himself.

The door was hidden from where Jasmine sat at Jim’s desk, the filing cabinets and the sink partitioned off by a wall that created a small corridor and rendered the office L-shaped. He hadn’t buzzed to be let into the building, perhaps having come in as someone else left, and Jasmine hadn’t heard him open the office door. His progress from there must have been muted and tentative; he gave the impression that by the time he turned the corner, he hadn’t expected to find anybody, most probably because the place was monastically silent.

He put a hand to his chest to acknowledge his own fright, and laughed a little at their mutual shock.

‘I’m sorry, the door was open and then it was so quiet …’

‘Can I help you?’ Jasmine recovered enough to ask.