When I was well enough to walk with a stick, I made the journey to West Ham.

It was not a long journey, but it felt longer than it should have. My leg was stiff, my ribs still tender. I travelled quietly, without announcement, without expectation.

I arrived at 60 Tower Hamlets Road just after midday. The house was changed. The curtains were different. The front step had been scrubbed. A child’s toy lay in the garden. The name on the bell was unfamiliar.

New tenants had moved in.

There was no sign of Swift.

I did not knock. I did not ask questions. I stood at the gate for a long time, watching the windows, listening to the quiet.

There was no opportunity to inspect the house. No plausible reason to request entry. No trace of what had been.

I had to trust to the integrity of Swift’s hiding place — wherever it was — to keep the damning evidence secure, at least until after my death.

I returned to Rolls House that evening. My memoir had been completed, but now a postscript was in order.

So I began to write.