‘Which are …?’

‘Sort of tributes to individuals who’re not famous. Say, a couple coming up for their Golden Wedding … their kids want to get together a montage of old photos, bits of video, memories from family and friends talking straight to camera. They give me the stuff, I edit it all together, make a nice neat little package.’

‘I should think they’re very popular.’

‘Increasingly, I’m glad to say, from a business point of view. And there’ll be more to come with the next generation, the ones who grew up photographing everything on their mobile phones. There’ll be no lack of footage then. Though quite a few tend to do their own editing now. They’ve got the technology to do it on their phones. But a lot of them’re so cack-handed, or so bloody lazy, I think my services will still be required. I’ll have enough work to see me out.’

Phil Dickie grinned ruefully. ‘Once I’d recovered from my injuries … well, no, I should say, “Once I’d come to terms with my injuries …”, I looked around and thought, “What can I do now?” There was no way I could go back to being a news cameraman. Hadn’t got the mobility, apart from anything else. And also … when I started getting flashbacks from the PTSD … well, I wasn’t that keen on putting myself back into a war zone.

‘So, I’d got a bit of money. Though I was freelance, the BBC did give me some compensation because I was injured while working for them. I put the money into this studio and set up my film transfer business. It was never going to recapture the excitement of what I used to do, but it was something. And I needed some kind of income to see me through the rest of my life.’

His lips twisted into a grimly sardonic expression. ‘Better than nothing, eh?’ he said.

‘So how old were you … when it happened?’

‘Out in Beirut? Thirty-three. Doing the job I loved. Recently married. Thinking of trying for a baby.’

‘And are you still …?’

Another sceptical twist of the lips. ‘No. I’m afraid my wife decided she didn’t want to be married to a bomb site. That wasn’t what she’d signed up for.’

I was inevitably reminded of what Tracey had said about her relationship with Ben.

‘She got married to someone else soon after. Three kids they’ve got.’

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything suitable to say.

‘So here I am.’ Phil Dickie looked bleakly around his domain. The desk he sat at was a landscape of switches, dials, buttons, and faders. In front of him, an internal window opened on to the small, unlit recording studio.

‘Sorry. Enough about me,’ he said. ‘You wanted to talk about Ingrid Richards.’

‘Yes. Do you mind?’

‘No. Since I’ve heard she’s dead, I’ve wanted to talk to someone about her. But I’ve lost touch with all my old contacts in that world. Deliberately lost touch with them, in most cases. But now I do need to talk about her.’