Knocking at the edge of the rock with my foot, I feel a thud in my chest and I stand. My body shaking with expectation, I pull out my phone and dial Oscar’s number.

He answers after two rings.

My voice is laced with fear and excitement. ‘It’s me. I need you to meet me at Parliament Hill. Now.’

Arriving at the café a few minutes later, I take a seat under one of the umbrellas in the courtyard overlooking the road.

The last time I was here was at the beginning of summer two years ago. Jess and I sat in pretty much the same spot, nursing a hangover, picking on pizza and Diet Coke, straight from the Camden Crawl. It couldn’t have been more than a few months since I’d got the job on the paper, thanks to a friend of hers who’d known the music reviewer, before he – along with half the paper’s better-paid, more experienced staff – was made redundant.

Scanning the roundabout, the endless stream of Volvo estates and Land Rovers cruising towards Highgate Village, I finally spot a police car, parking on the double yellow line opposite. Sergeant Morley, I remind myself as Oscar steps out, an overcoat partially obscuring his uniform. He’s had a haircut, I think before I can stop myself, and self-consciously I run my hands over my own hair which I realise I haven’t brushed in days.

Looking up, he catches my eye and then looks away again, pretending to survey the street so as to limit the awkwardness of eye contact as he makes his way towards me. I wonder, briefly, if he’ll try to hug me, or offer a kiss on the cheek. It’s more than a year since he last touched me. Thankfully, he pulls up a chair and nods his hello, the sound of metal scraping against concrete.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ I say, businesslike, suddenly nervous in his company.

‘It’s good to see you. I can’t be long … Give me one of those then,’ he reaches across and pulls out a cigarette, using my lighter.

When did he start smoking again?

As he looks up at me, his voice shifts uncomfortably. ‘So how have you been? After yesterday I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you …’

‘I’m fine. Look, Oscar,’ I say, cutting to the chase, uneasy about where this conversation might otherwise lead.

‘It’s about what I saw … on Saturday … I’ve found something.’

He doesn’t reply at first, so I continue, ‘I went back to the scene. There’s something I need to show you.’

I stand, pushing back my chair as if to leave as the waitress comes over.

As if he hasn’t heard, Oscar looks up at her. ‘Yeah, I’ll get a bacon sandwich and an orange juice. The same for her.’