I hesitated. It would be nice to have a brief period of respite and I wasn’t planning on being gone all day.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course! Just pop her round in her pram when you’re ready to go. I’ll look forward to it. Are you taking the dog?’

‘I didn’t intend to, no. My friend – well, she’s more of an acquaintance really – lives in a flat by the canal, and I don’t think there’s a garden.’

‘Leave me your key, then, and I can let him out. A shame for him to be cooped up inside for hours when it’s so nice.’

I felt slightly apprehensive as I left Elodie later, but Mrs Barley shooed me out of her house and told me not to worry. I left Jobie with plenty of food and water, and made a big fuss of him before leaving. I felt guilty not taking him along, but, garden or not, it really wasn’t practical as I was travelling by rail. I took the train into Birmingham and enjoyed the leisurely journey, ambling past the designer shops on the way to Maryam’s flat, which was some twenty minutes on foot from the station.

The apartment was part of an exclusive-looking development in a converted warehouse. One side overlooked the canal, from where a narrow passageway opened out into a smart courtyard area with a bubbling fountain and a seating area beneath a large pergola. Tall zinc planters, containing neatly clipped Buxus balls, flanked the entrance. I pressed Flat 18 on the door panel and waited.

Maryam’s distinctive voice came over the intercom. ‘Hi, Stina, come on up!’

I took the lift to the third floor and she greeted me warmly at the door. She looked effortlessly chic, in skinny jeans and a loose linen tunic.

‘It’s good to see you again. Oh, no baby with you?’ She seemed a little disappointed.

‘She’s not too well today, so I’ve left her with my neighbour.’

‘Never mind; another time, eh?’

She ushered me into the living area. The apartment was open-plan and impressively spacious: light and airy, with high, oak-beamed ceilings and exposed terracotta brickwork throughout. Sun spilled onto the polished wooden floor through a huge arched window, which looked out onto the canal. Everything was simply but tastefully furnished. A huge, black-and-white image of Reggie, windswept and resplendent in a flowing white dress, was displayed on one wall. Her prized carved African tribal heads, bought from an antiques market in London some years ago, stood either side of a huge fireplace. A lump came to my throat.

Seeing my face, Maryam smiled sadly. ‘She loved those heads; I’m sure you know. The photo was taken on a shoot in Tunisia last year. I had it blown up. She looks stunning, doesn’t she? We were working, but had a few days off. It was a wonderful holiday, too. Please – sit.’