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I suppose they did it out of love but I couldn’t help thinking that advertising to the neighbours that I’d been away in a psychiatric hospital was not something to shout about.

And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen the boys.

Grant had steadfastly refused to bring them into the hospital but, for the last two weeks of my stay I had been allowed out on accompanied visits to a local café and I had seen them there.

My mother had also been waiting for me at home, standing at the front door as we’d pulled into the drive.

‘Hello, dear,’ she’d said, giving me a peck on the cheek, as she always did. There had been no hug, no grasp to her bosom, no tears of happiness, no joy. Had I expected there to be? I now saw all too clearly how such lack of affection had damaged me.

I would not do the same to my own children.

I had hugged them both, together and separately, and thanked them effusively for the banner.

‘It was Dad’s idea,’ they said.

So I’d hugged him too. The first time in months.

Not that coming home had been all sweetness and light.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly patients become institutionalised by a stay in hospital and the same had clearly happened to me.

All the while I’d been away, I had wanted so much to go home and be with my family but, with my wish finally granted, I’d hated it and longed to be back surrounded by the safe cocoon of routine and procedure. And what made it worse was that everyone else had been so pleased to have me there. Their delight had only seemed to add to my despair and isolation.

That first night, I’d cried myself to sleep.

I turned DS Merryweather’s business card over and over in my hands. I had found it tucked behind the bread bin in the kitchen, where I’d placed it after his visit on the day Grant had driven me home from Bristol in November.

Should I call him?

The unnamed man was increasingly invading my consciousness.

Almost three months had passed since the assistant coroner had been to see me. Surely the toxicology results would be back by now? And how about his clothes? Had the Singapore tailor come forward with a name?

Something inside me had to know.

I rang the number.

‘DS Merryweather,’ said the voice that answered.

‘Ah, yes, hello,’ I said hesitantly, ‘this is Dr Rankin. I was wondering if you had any news about the date of the inquest for the dead man from the racecourse Gents, because I’m busy during all four days of the racing festival next week.’

It was the best excuse for calling that I could think of.

‘As far as I am aware, no date has yet been set,’ the policeman replied very formally. ‘I am sure someone will let you know in due course, Dr Rankin, that is if you are required to attend. In any case, it certainly won’t be next week. You would get more notice than that. But thank you for letting us know.’

‘Have you found out who he was?’ I asked hurriedly before he had a chance to hang up.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we have not.’

‘Didn’t the Singapore tailor or the Dubai shoemaker provide you with a name?’

‘No. Dead ends, both of them.’ If he was surprised I knew about them, he didn’t show it. ‘The tailor said he had no records, although I suspect he just didn’t want to get involved, and the shoe man only knew him as Rahul.’

‘Surely that’s a start,’ I said.

‘Rahul is an extremely common name. For a start, there are about a million Rahuls in India alone. It’s an Arabic name too. It is even prevalent in Southeast Asia. Buddha’s only son was called Rahul.’

‘Do you have any idea where our Rahul came from?’ I asked.

‘Indian family origin seems the most likely. It seems that DNA testing can’t positively determine race but the odds are on India because the man’s profile is similar to others from the subcontinent. But there’s no way of telling from the DNA if he was born in New Delhi, New York or Newcastle.’

I thought back and tried to remember if I’d assumed the man was Indian at the time. Not particularly so, but I could recall that his skin had been olive-brown and his hair black. He could have been Indian. But he could also have been Greek, or French, or Italian, or Spanish, or from any number of other countries where the sun shines brightly.

‘How about the toxicology results?’ I asked. ‘Do you know the definitive cause of death yet?’

‘Respiratory collapse and heart failure brought on by cocaine overdose. The quantity of the drug found in the man’s brain was extremely high, well over that required to kill.’

I nodded. If the blood-test result had been accurate then it had to be the case.

‘Any suggestion where the cocaine came from?’ I asked.

The detective sergeant hesitated as if deciding whether to tell me or not. ‘I believe you informed PC Filippos that cocaine could be dissolved into alcohol.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It can be dissolved into almost anything.’

‘The empty whisky bottle found in the toilet waste bin did contain cocaine. The tiny bit of liquid that remained in the bottle was tested and found to be at such a high concentration that just drinking a little of it would have been lethal.’

‘So you think that our Rahul must have drunk from the bottle?’