We enter the shop and a friendly member of staff greets us just inside the door with a glass of prosecco, which I decline, having already had a few earlier in the day.

She informs us that the event will be starting soon, and points us in the direction of the staircase which is through a doorway I hadn’t previously noticed at the back of the shop.

We thank her and make our way towards the stairs, weaving through a few stragglers who are scanning the shelves, lost in the land of books. At the bottom of the stairs, another employee is checking the tickets for the sold-out event.

A harried man with thick, bushy hair in front of us is riffling through his trouser pockets, double checking and still coming up empty. The employee looks over the man’s shoulder at us and gives us a knowing, exasperated look.

Finally, the man locates his ticket in the breast pocket of his raincoat. He hands the slightly soggy ticket to the employee who motions for him to ascend the stairs. Tom already has the tickets in his hand and flashes them, before standing aside to let me climb the stairs before him.

There is already a buzz of excitement in the upstairs function room. Framed covers of famous novels adorn the wood-panelled walls and a single light on the ceiling bathes the room in a dim glow. A narrow aisle bisects the room and a table at the back has been set up to showcase a variety of merchandise including the three books in The Threat series.

Approximately sixty foldable plastic chairs have been laid out in rows and most have been already been claimed. Tom and I scan for any remaining seats and, locating two together at the end of the back row, squeeze by eager attendees to reach them. I set my bag and coat on the floor and kick them underneath my seat, before settling into the uncomfortable chair.

‘Have you read any of Ed’s books?’ asks Tom. ‘They’re pretty good.’

I shake my head. ‘I hadn’t even heard of him until we started investigating this case.’

Looking around, I notice it’s a strange mixture of people who have gathered for the event. Two girls in Goth get up sit beside an old man who is tapping rhythmically on his walking stick. In front of them sit an entire row of men in suits, and at the end of the front row is a man I recognise - Jay, the rude American from the film set at Conwy. He is wearing a tight shirt tucked untidily into black suit trousers. He is so wide that his bulk is taking up almost two seats and spilling out into the aisle. I decide to corner him at the end of the night and reprimand him for how he spoke to me on the phone a few days ago.

A few minutes later, a petite woman with short blond hair and round, oversized glasses walks down the aisle towards the three upholstered seats and a low table at the end of the room, situated on a raised platform serving as a stage.