I click on the contact page and dial the telephone number provided. It rings for a few seconds before I’m connected to a pre-recorded message, stating that the office is closed for the weekend. I replace the handset and click on the email address, which opens a separate window on my browser. I type a short message, explaining my need to contact Ben and include my contact details before signing off and hitting send.

I spend a few more minutes trawling through the website in case there is any important information which I may have overlooked, before closing the browser window. As I stand up to leave my office, the phone rings.

‘DI Erika Piper,’ I answer.

‘Hi,’ the man’s voice on the other line starts, ‘my name is Professor McLeish, I have just received your email.’

I can hear the echo of our conversation and I assume he is using a hands-free kit. His tone is formal and I can’t help but picture him as a stern man in robes, sat behind an ancient, oak desk holding a quilled pen between ink stained fingers.

‘Thank you for getting back so quickly.’

‘No problem. Emails ping straight to my phone and it sounded rather urgent. I’m actually heading into the office right now, I left in a hurry yesterday and I forgot my briefcase. I can spare a few minutes if it will help you.’

I assure him that a few minutes of his time would be very helpful and arrange to meet at the university campus in thirty minutes.

Professor McLeish’s office isn’t what I expected. There is no ancient, oak desk. Instead, a flimsy metal desk houses a top of the range Apple Mac and a picture of two children, twin boys by the looks of it, judging by their matching clothes and hairstyles.

The desk sits in front of a huge window, overlooking the passing traffic on Oxford Road and framed pictures of iconic films including Casablanca and The Godfather fill the walls.

The man sat behind the desk doesn’t match up with my imagination either; he’s probably in his early forties, far from the old man I’d envisioned. Flecks of grey have spread through his thick, dark hair and his loose, casual clothes disguise an athletic body. He insists we call him by his forename, Derek.

‘Sorry if I seemed a bit terse on the phone, Detective, even with the hands-free set up I don’t like talking whilst driving.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ I nod, ‘it’s a shame more people don’t feel the same way.’

He smiles.

‘I’m sorry to cut to the chase, but I have plans for today.’

He is sitting with his elbows on the desk, tapping his fingers together like a Bond villain.

‘You said in your email that you required information about one of my students. Obviously, we have codes of confidentiality, but I’ll see what I can do. Please, tell me what you would like to know.’