‘Bloody hell, what you doing calling my work phone at this time, you nutter?’ I ask and he carries on as if I haven’t spoken.

‘Listen, babe, I can’t find my wallet. Could you pop down for me and see if I’ve left it on my desk?’

I groan at the prospect of navigating my way down the fire escape into the garden and then back through the door into the basement, unlocking and re-locking doors as I go.

Giovanni makes a kissing noise down the line, ‘I know, I know. Pleeeeease, Issy babe …’

‘You’re fucking lucky I’m still here,’ I say.

He tuts. ‘Oh come on. You’re always there.’

Rolling my eyes, I stand up. ‘Wait there, I’ll call you back in two minutes. You owe me …’

It is pitch-black outside as I make my way past the back door towards the stairs to the basement. The steps make a hollow ringing sound as my feet strike the metal. On the last step, I hear a rustling and a scratching sound at the end of the garden; for a moment my whole body seizes. But then the noise comes again, followed by a lurching and a scuffle, and I see the outline of a fox, mangy with a stump for a tail, disappearing into the undergrowth.

Moving more quickly towards the back door, I unlock the basement, the rusted handle resisting for a moment against my efforts.

Inside, I feel around for a light. As I press the button, the room lights up and I see Giovanni’s wallet on his desk as he had described.

I am making my way back up the staircase with the wallet in my hand a moment later when the phone rings again.

Bloody Giovanni. I curse him silently as I move back into the main office.

‘Have some patience!’ I say as I pick up the phone, and for a moment the line is silent.

‘Giovanni?’ As I speak, my eyes peel instinctively back across the brightly lit room towards the darkness of the garden. Again, there is silence. But then, with the sound of my own quickening pulse throbbing in my ears, I hear something else, a low breathing down the line, and somewhere in the distance, the faint rumble of voices.

The chill that skims across the surface of my skin is like a shard of ice. Before I can think, my fingers slowly trace the surface of my desk towards my Dictaphone, which is in its usual position, plugged into the phone. My palms damp with a cold film of sweat, I press the ‘record’ button, and wait.

The line remains silent for another few seconds.

‘Giovanni, this isn’t funny,’ I say and then he speaks. His voice is muffled, deep with an intonation that is a world away from my colleague’s lilting sing-song.