Let me start at the beginning. The first sign that something was wrong was the police patrol car parked outside the house, along with a black Ford Capri. The next thing I noticed was that the front door was wide open, and people I didn’t recognise stood talking in the hallway, one of them a uniformed police officer.
I flew up the front steps two at a time and went in. Or tried to. Before I got far, the uniformed officer held out his arm to bar my way.
‘Oy, you can’t go in there,’ he said. ‘It’s a possible crime scene.
‘What do you mean? I live here.’
He consulted his clipboard.
‘Name?’
‘Nicholas Hartley.’
He screwed up his eyes and ran his finger down the list. It can’t have been that hard to find my name; there are two bedsits on the ground floor, two in the basement, two on the first floor and a one-bedroom flat at the top. Seven of us altogether. It was student accommodation.
‘Nicholas Hartley. First floor?’
‘That’s me.’
One of the men he had been talking to was peering over the officer’s shoulder at the clipboard. ‘It’s OK, Glen,’ he said. ‘Let him through.’ Then he looked at me. ‘Come on, son, show me where you live.’
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, but he just gestured for me to get going…
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