We walk in the direction of the car park and as we round the corner of the building, a man, who was two seconds ago leaning lazily against the wall of the station, leaps into the middle of the pavement, blocking our way.

‘Alright,’ he says, tipping his head forward in a mock-friendly way. ‘Is it true you have arrested Reuben Amaro in connection with Anna Symon’s murder?’

As he finishes his question, he pulls a notepad out of his jacket pocket and retrieves a biro that was resting upon his ear. He reminds me of one of the hyenas from The Lion King.

‘No,’ replies Liam, attempting to push past him. The journalist walks backwards, in step with us.

‘Why did he come out of the station earlier then? Is he your prime suspect?’

We remain silent as we march towards him. He is still walking backwards and, because of this, doesn’t see the lamppost until he has collided with it – his back smashing into the unyielding metal pole.

Liam and I step around him as he writhes in pain on the ground, his notepad and pen strewn across the floor. We reach the car and get in, just as he straightens himself with a look of discomfort on his face.

‘You know this is only the start of press involvement unless we solve this quickly?’ Liam says as we pull out of the station’s car park towards the motorway.

It doesn’t take long to find Zed; he is in his usual spot, sitting on his blanket against a stretch of wall between Marks and Spencer and Santander.

‘How many times do I have to tell you Zed? You can’t be hanging about near the ATMs.’ I say in way of a greeting.

‘Oh!’ he says in his thick Scottish accent, looking around wildly, apparently clocking the money dispensing machines for the first time. ‘I didnae realise that’s what they are.’

Zed is, what my mother would call, a scally-wag. Straggly, ginger hair hangs over his face which is mostly obscured by a thick, matted beard. He has lost many teeth, whether to poor oral hygiene, or otherwise, is debatable.

A tatty puffer jacket, ripped waterproof trousers and scuffed boots are what he has cobbled together in an attempt to keep himself warm. His trademark Manchester United beanie hat completes his look; a hat he has worn constantly for as long as I’ve known him and has bequeathed him the moniker Zed the Red.

‘I havenae done anything, officers,’ he says, holding his hands up.

‘No-one said you have,’ I reply. ‘We’re here for your help.’ At this, his eyes widen and brighten. The illusion of power has been handed to him.

‘Oh aye? What’s in it for me?’ he asks.

‘A hot lunch?’

I can sense his excitement at the prospect of a hearty meal, though he plays it visibly cool. ‘Throw in dessert and you’ve got me for as long as you need me.’