He barks a hollow laugh which turns into a series of coughs and rubs his eyes.

‘Wasn’t just me, either,’ he continues. ‘He walked around the set like he was Jesus Christ. I swear Jason Krist isn’t his actual real name, he probably changed it to make it closer to the Almighty’s. He threw Anna’s boyfriend at the time, can’t remember his name, off the set too. Said he was proving to be a distraction, that Anna wasn’t fully focussed or giving her all.’

‘So you and Jay didn’t get on?’

He smiles.

‘Understatement of the year. We hate each other; have done ever since Blood Ice. He screwed me royally on my film deal. Like I said before, it was enough for me to give up the day job. But it wasn’t a good deal. I thought he was looking out for me, but he knew what he was doing and I was very green. Too trusting and excitable. Then to have me thrown off the set, it was embarrassing. Jay laughed in Reuben’s face when he asked him if I could come for a set visit on…’ he pauses, gulps and a flash of fury spreads momentarily across his face, ‘the second film. I refuse to call it… what they’ve ended up calling it.’

‘Do you blame Jay for ruining the film versions of your books?’

He nods.

‘Jay was the man with the money and with the final say. It’s his fault it turned out so shit. God knows what he has done with the second one.’

His breathing has become laboured and his face has become a shade of crimson. I let the venom settle before informing him about Jay’s fate. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare, his mouth opens trying to find words but only succeeds in releasing a quiet gasp. I imagine he’s wondering if, after revealing his loathing of Jay, he has said a little bit too much.

‘Poor bloke,’ he says, putting his hands over his mouth and bowing his head. ‘However much we didn’t see eye to eye, no one deserves to go like that.’

‘Pages from your books have been left at the crime scenes. One from The Threat at the ice rink where Anna’s body was found and one from The Violent Threat in the alleyway where Jason’s body was found. Do you know anything about this?’

Genuine confusion flashes across his face.

‘Are you accusing me of these murders?’ he asks.

‘We’re not accusing you of anything. We’re simply asking if you know why this might be happening?’

‘I don’t know anything about it. It makes me feel sick that whoever is doing this is using my books for ideas. Maybe someone is trying to frame me…’ he trails off, seemingly aghast at the prospect.

We allow him a few moments of silent reflection before I ask if I can go to the toilet. Ed nods and gives me directions to the bathroom. I stand up and walk out of the room and into the hallway. The stairs are made from heavy wood and my shoeless feet slip on the polished oak.