‘DCI Bob had a word with me about it. Apparently, I had to get rid of it because of health and safety. Bob is worried that someone might grab it if I was trying to apprehend them. I tried to just make it a bit smaller, but it’s still too soon to attempt Hitler-chic,’ he explains, with a smile.

I laugh and he tells me I look beautiful, before giving me a kiss on the lips which causes my heart to hammer hard against my ribs. I turn the lights off in the house, lock the door and he leads me to his car, opening the door for me in very chivalrous fashion.

As we roll along the crowded motorway, we discuss the case, amongst other things. Tom decides that tonight should be a night to switch off from work and to simply enjoy a night not thinking about crime, aside from what happens on the silver screen.

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull into the Trafford Centre car park, which is, as usual, full to the brim. We coast through row after row of cars before cutting our losses and opting for the large overflow car park, as far away from the building as it is possible to be, which means a longer walk. At least it’s not raining.

We begin our walk down the concourse towards the Odeon cinema. In the rush of getting ready, I’d forgotten that the premiere was taking place on a cold winter’s night in northern England, and had not had the foresight to bring any warm clothing. Noticing my shivering body and chattering teeth, Tom removes his jacket and insists I wear it, draping it over my shoulders. I thank him for his thoughtfulness and we proceed towards the cinema.

‘Did you watch Blood Ice?’ he asks. Tom had lent me the DVD of the first film in the series last week and insisted I watch it before tonight, as some of the characters make a return in the film we are here to see tonight, Hell Hammer.

‘I did,’ I confirm

‘And?’

I hold my hand horizontally and give it a wobble. ‘It was OK. I think I would’ve enjoyed it a lot more had I not been privy to seeing Anna’s actual semi-decapitated body.’

‘Fair play,’ he nods, ‘that probably does take away some of the mystique.’

‘And Ben, the student,’ I add, noticing his quizzical look, ‘does have a point, her death scene in the film looked a bit… amateur.’

The usually bog-standard cinema foyer I’ve been in a million times has had a major facelift. Gone are the cardboard cut-outs advertising upcoming films, gone are the groups of tracksuit wearing teens and gone are the usual bored looking staff that seem like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Instead, the place has been transformed into a setting fit for Hollywood royalty. Black, fabric drapes displaying a red claw hammer, much like the one found on the Soviet Union flag; its handle emblazoned with the letters HH in thick, block capitals, hang from the ceiling. Those same letters have been stitched onto the backs of the waiter’s waistcoats, a team of whom are currently moving around the room, silently offering guests a selection of costly alcohol.