The second message is from Oscar: ‘Isobel, it’s me, I need you to call me as soon as you get this.’

The sound of his voice sobers me instantly. Moving to the sofa to stretch out my legs which are suddenly so tired, I call back, but his phone goes straight to voicemail.

Soon, I can no longer resist the woozy sensation enveloping my brain. Dropping my glass gently to the floor I lean back on the sofa and close my eyes.

I wake to the sound of my phone. My eyes flying open, I pull myself sharply out of my stupor.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, it’s me,’ Oscar says.

I sit up, rubbing my temples with my thumb and fingers. ‘Hi, what time is it?’

He clears his throat. ‘Half seven.’

‘In the morning? Jesus.’ I sit bolt upright, my vision barely keeping up.

Oscar’s voice is cool. ‘We’ve had a call from Missing Persons. Apparently one of our officers put in a call requesting information. Which is strange as I’ve spoken to her and she has no recollection of ever making that call. And funnily enough, the call was made not long after her ID badge went missing, on Sunday.’

I swallow.

‘Oscar, I …’

‘Anyway,’ he says, his voice steady, ‘I think you’ll want to see this.’

As I sit in Reception at Kentish Town police station, waiting for Oscar to escort me upstairs, I am conscious of the penetrating gaze of the officer behind the glass.

When Oscar finally arrives, something in my chest lifts. Closer up, I notice his hair is devoid of the usual gelled coif, his shirt ruffled.

‘Through here,’ he holds open the door. As I pass through, I can’t help but breathe in his familiar smell.

Casting my eye around the open-plan office, I see we are the only ones here.

‘Crime doesn’t start till 9a.m. these days, then?’ I say, and instantly regret it.

‘Aren’t you usually complaining that we’re all locked in offices rather than out on the streets?’

He tries to look blasé, ruffling through a neat pile of papers.

‘Sit,’ he says, pointing towards a chair. I know it is his from the familiar scent of the jacket hanging over the back.

Clearing his throat, he pulls out a photo. ‘Her name’s Eva Krasniqi. She’s been missing a week. Landlady logged it a few days ago in Brighton … It might be nothing, you know how unreliable this kind of information can be, but well, thought you might want to have a look …’

He keeps his gaze fixed to the picture.