We returned to Harvey’s home in silence. The walk from Westminster to West Ham was long, but neither of us spoke. The streets passed like scenery in a play — familiar, but distant.

Inside, the kettle hissed. The fire was already lit.

Harvey sat slowly, as if the day had aged him more than the years ever had.

“I think that’s as far as I go,” he said.

“The visit to Bond… the archive room… it’s enough. More than enough.” He paused. “I’ve spent years trying not to remember. And now I’ve remembered too much.”

“We’re moving,” he said. “The lease is up. My wife wants somewhere quieter. I didn’t argue.”

He smiled faintly. “I knew you would.”

The next morning, the news came like a blow to the chest.

Dr Thomas Bond — police surgeon, trusted colleague, quiet witness — was dead. Left briefly unattended, he had leapt from his third-floor window. The fall was swift, the impact fatal.

We walked home together, silent until we reached Tower Hamlets Road.

“He was afraid,” Harvey said. “I saw it. In his eyes.”

I nodded. “He knew what Kerr had done. And he knew it couldn’t be undone.”

Then Harvey spoke again. “We’re leaving next week. The house will be empty.”

I looked around — the sitting room, the hearth, the worn wallpaper.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Harvey looked up, surprised.

“I’ll help you pack. And when you go, I’ll stay.”

He nodded slowly. “Good. It’s a quiet house. It deserves someone who listens.”

It was the final evening before their departure. Harvey spoke slowly, deliberately.

“Kerr was broad in the shoulders. Not tall, but solid. He walked with a slight limp — left leg. Always wore a long coat, even in warm weather. Dark wool. Never buttoned. His hair was thinning, greying at the temples. Clean-shaven. Sharp features. Eyes like glass — not cold, but unreadable.”

He looked at me. “He had a habit. He’d tilt his head when listening. Just slightly. Like he was trying to hear something behind the words. You’ll know him if you see him. Even now.”

I nodded. “I’ll find him.”

The next morning, they were gone.

I stood alone in the doorway of 60 Tower Hamlets Road, the key cold in my hand. The house was quiet. Not empty — just waiting. And each night, I sat in Harvey’s chair. Thinking. Planning.

It would be several days before I made my way to Chigwell. But the thread had been found. And I was ready to follow it.