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architect (or indeed, given when it was done, any architect at all) could have made a much nicer flat out of it. If recombined with the basement (as Fitton had said Hibbert had been plotting) it would make a very glamorous maisonette, with a big kitchen/breakfast-room downstairs, and living room, two beds and modern bathroom upstairs. With the big rooms, high ceilings, mouldings and so on, it would fetch a stone fortune in up-and-coming Shepherd’s Bush; so it wouldn’t be wonderful if Hibbert, who was in the business after all, had spotted the potential.
    Leaving aside the property-developing crying-shame it represented, Atherton noted that the furniture was modern but cheap, and that the place was ordinarily tidy. In the bedroom, the bed had been made, in that the duvet had been pulled up, but it hadn’t been straightened or smoothed. There was a built-in wardrobe with sliding doors and a free-standing one so stuffed with clothes the doors wouldn’t close at all. An exercise bike in the corner had clothes heaped over its saddle, and there were more clothes dumped on a wicker armchair – it would be fun trying to work out what she had been wearing, should the need arise. But there were no used plates or mugs or dirty clothes strewn around, and the floor was clear and the carpet clean. The sitting room was tidier, with only a newspaper, a novel (Laurie Graham, At Sea , face down and opened at page 64) and an emery board lying around to show occupation. And the handbag, large and tan leather, which was on the sofa, at the end nearest the door.
    Connolly gestured to the remote, lying on the coffee table next to the emery board. ‘She coulda been sitting here, doing her nails and watching the TV. See, the TV’s not been turned off at the switch – it’s on standby.’
    â€˜Ninety per cent of people habitually turn off the TV with the remote,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t mean she was interrupted.’
    In the bathroom he observed that the inside of the shower and the bath were dry, as were both bath towels, stretched out on a double towel-rail, and the bath mat, hanging over the side of the bath. But there were drops of water still in the basin, and the hand towel was crumpled and damp inside the creases.
    â€˜Which accords with no one having showered in here since Friday,’ he said. ‘Sonny Boy says he came home at ten this morning. So he didn’t shower, but did at least wash his hands. Probably after he went to the loo. There are droplets round the loo bowl as well.’
    â€˜To much information,’ Connolly said, making a face.
    â€˜Water droplets, from the flush. Don’t be sensitive. Got that torch?’ he asked.
    The bathroom was fully tiled, and there was tile-patterned acrylic flooring, but both were old, chipped here and there, the grouting discoloured and breaking. Atherton went over everything with the torch, looking sidelong to catch any smearing or marks, shone the torch down the plug holes and under the rim of the toilet (‘Rather you than me,’ Connolly said) and then did the same in the kitchen – equally old and shabby, but clean and tidy, with the last lot of washing-up (cereal bowls and mugs and a small plate – Friday’s breakfast?) clean and very dry in the dish rack.
    â€˜A big fat nothing,’ Connolly concluded, sounding slightly disappointed.
    â€˜If she was abducted, she went without a struggle,’ Atherton said, ‘and if she was killed here, it was very quick and clean. Or Hibbert’s a better housekeeper than he looks. Or –’ he gave Connolly a look – ‘she walked out of her own accord and will shortly come prancing back through the door demanding to know what we’re doing here.’
    Connolly studied him. ‘You don’t think that any more. You’re starting to think there’s something in it.’
    â€˜Not really. Except for the mobile. You’ve got me