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the four slices of wholemeal bread she had taken from the children’s snacks and scattered the crumbs on the pavement. Pigeons appeared at once and began gobbling up the bread. People said pigeons were grey, but Lizzie knew better. One was red and green, another was silver with a double streak of snowy white, and a third, perhaps the handsomest, jet black with a metallic emerald sheen to its feathers.
    By this time, she had got into Stacey’s habit of keeping a set of keys in the recycling cupboard, not because she expected someone else to try to gain entry in her absence – there was no one – but because she was inclined to forget things and knew very well that if she inadvertently shut herself out of Stacey’s flat, she would have no means of getting back inside. Not for her the services of a locksmith when she couldn’t identify herself as the owner or legal occupant of the flat. No relative had come forward as far as she knew, no other friend who might possess a key. In putting the spare set in the recycling cupboard, in the hollow under the loose brick in the floor, Lizzie calculated she was safe. The only alternative she could think of was to carry the keys with her at all times, maybe on a chain round her neck. She disliked the idea because it spoilt her look when wearing Stacey’s clothes.
     
    Una Martin wasn’t much of a cook. She relied on smoked salmon and the kind of pasta dishes you bought ready-made and just had to put in the microwave. Her son didn’t notice what he ate and seemed to be glad of anything he got. Una assumed that he and Nicola lived on ready meals and takeaways.
    ‘I’ve been wondering,’ she said as she and Carl began on their first course (there was no second), ‘who’s going to get poor Stacey’s flat? I mean, what happens to property if it’s not left to anyone and no one comes forward to claim it?’
    ‘It goes to the Crown,’ Carl said, guessing. He didn’t really know.
    ‘I’ve never been in her flat,’ Una continued. ‘I expect it’s very nice.’
    ‘Yes, it is.’ Carl helped himself to more pasta. ‘I’ve been a few times.’
    ‘Now if only you’d married her, it would be yours,’ said his mother.
    Carl sighed. ‘I don’t need a flat. I’ve got a nice house. There was no prospect of me marrying her. You got this crazy idea into your head and I don’t know where it came from. Stacey was just a friend.’
    ‘There’s no such thing as a man and a woman just being friends.’
    ‘Is there any more wine?’ Carl asked.
    No answer was forthcoming.
    ‘There was an aunt,’ he said, remembering.
    ‘What on earth do you mean, darling, there was an aunt?’
    ‘Stacey Warren had an aunt.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘She lived with her after her parents died.’
    ‘So you’re saying that this aunt, whoever she is, would inherit that beautiful flat? What’s her name? Where does she live?’
    ‘I don’t remember,’ Carl said, but Una pursued the matter exhaustively. Who was the aunt? How would they find her? How long would it take?
    While she talked, Carl sat eating everything that was left. It was a change for him to think about Stacey from a different aspect, not from the point of view of her death and whose fault it was. He also remembered where Stacey had kept her spare set of keys, though he was sure they wouldn’t be there any longer.
    Una lived in Gloucester Avenue in Camden, which was not far from Primrose Hill Road but some way from the part of it where Stacey’s flat was. On a whim, he made a detour on his way home and, looking up at what had been Stacey’s windows, saw a faint light on. Someone was in there. Perhaps a solicitor? An estate agent? At twenty minutes to ten at night? It wasn’t his business. He had come to check on the keys in the recycling cupboard.
    There was no one about. He shifted the recycling bin a few inches, surprised to find it half full of newspapers and packaging. The keys were there all right, underneath the