Knowing it will be at least another hour until anyone else gets in, I light a cigarette before heading across the room to push open the large sash window. Hesitating, I spot a tiny gap where the window hasn’t been properly shut. It explains the cold air seeping into the office from the dilapidated garden beyond. It also confirms that no one has done anything to fix the lock, which looks like it was fitted with the original window more than a hundred years ago.

It is just a matter of time before someone breaks in and helps themselves to the prehistoric computers, in the process destroying the order of the mountain of used reporters’ pads dating back years – ‘going digital’ in this office means not replacing the broken fax machine.

I am preoccupied by my thoughts as I reach my desk, flicking for the number for Missing Persons in the Rolodex that contains the name of every official contact I’ve made in my three years as a reporter.

After two rings, the voice on the other end of the line answers.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘This is PC Taylor from Kentish Town. We’ve got a body and I need to check whether it matches anyone on your register … That would be great, thank you. Of course, my badge number is …’

Reaching into my back pocket, I retrieve the identification card I swiped from the PC on the front desk when her back was turned the day before. It is absurd that the Missing Persons register is only accessible to the police when surely it should be a matter of public record, I muse as I finger the badge, wondering how long it will have taken her to notice it is missing.

‘No, we don’t have an ID on her, but we do have a first name,’ I reply. ‘Eva. Looks like a female aged between sixteen and twenty-five, brown hair, brown eyes … That’s no problem, I can hold.’

I feel my heart quicken as the woman at the end of the phone makes her search.

‘Hi, thank you … Oh, I see,’ I say a few moments later, trying not to let my disappointment show.

‘I understand. Yes, please do hold onto the information and if anything crops up … I tell you what, I’ll give you my direct line. PC Taylor, that’s right …’

It is unlikely the call will come through – things are rarely so swift or straightforward – but if it does, I am not worried that my answer machine will give away my true identity. My voicemail greeting simply informs callers that I am away from my desk.