Liam rummages through the glovebox and picks up a CD case, the only one in the car. ‘Shall we see how rusty we are?’ he asks.

As well as discussing whatever case we happen to be on, Liam and I have spent countless hours of travelling trying to nail every harmony the four beautiful Swedes committed to record on ABBA Gold.

‘Get it in,’ I reply.

We arrive in Conwy with slightly raspy throats. Golden threads of sunlight are fighting to break through the clouds, illuminating the still water in the harbour. The medieval castle looms on the skyline, climbing as if to touch the heavens. It’s an impressive greeting from the small coastal town.

I indicate into the castle’s car park and stop by the security cordon. A portly security guard in high-vis waddles towards our unmarked police car. I lower my window and treat him to a smile.

‘Castle’s shut today love, sorry,’ he says, bending down to look in at us. ‘They’re filming a movie up there.’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ I reply, flashing my police ID, ‘the director is expecting us.’

I watch as he pulls his radio up to his mouth and mumbles into it. A moment later, an indecipherable garble emits from the walkie-talkie, though he seems to have understood it because he moves a few of the cones that were blocking our way and waves us through.

I put the car into first gear and rev up the hill towards the spaces. Most of them have been taken up by huge production trucks and trailers so I pull into one of the spaces at the far end of the car park.

We show our passes to the security guards who stop us momentarily, before letting us past with slightly quizzical looks. The large courtyard of the castle buzzes with activity. Blinding lights heat the enclosed space and people with lanyards and clipboards run to and fro, avoiding the camera tracks laid out precisely on the floor.

A few actors are sitting around on chairs, noses stuck into scripts, poring over their lines; others are having their make-up reapplied whilst glued to their mobile phones. A number of intense conversations go on around the castle’s open square.

‘Places!’ screams a man suddenly, making me jump. People spring into action. A cameraman takes his position behind his equipment; his eye presses against the viewfinder and his hands adjust knobs on the side of his gear. Actors rise from their seats and take their place in the foreground, centre stage. The main guy who I vaguely recognise from something on TV is speaking to the man we’re here to see; Reuben Amado.

If I was asked to draw a hipster, I’d draw Reuben. Lank, shoulder-length hair emerges from under a woollen beanie hat and a long beard spills down onto a blue and white plaid shirt. Tight black jeans torn at the knees and a pair of maroon Doc Martins complete his bohemian uniform.