There’s no chance of a quiet getaway and of drawing no attention to this mess. I know he’s right, of course. The police do need to be informed. And they need to work harder at finding out who is behind this. So far, they’ve come back with nothing more insightful than, ‘We think it would be fair enough to assume this is related to your interest in the Kelly Doherty case, and your interest in Jamesy Harte in particular.’

As luck would have it, DC Mark Black is the officer who arrives, along with that busybody colleague of his, DS Eve King.

‘Detective Sergeant,’ I say. ‘I’d like to say it was nice to see you, but …’

She smiles, seemingly not bothered by my words or my tone.

‘We heard it was you and after that carry-on at your flat, we thought it better that I came along and had a look. Someone clearly has it in for you, Ms Devlin,’ DS King says.

Is there a hint of a smile on her face? Maybe I’m being paranoid. I’ve every right to be, in the circumstances.

She pulls a pair of disposable white gloves from her pocket. After putting them on, she hunkers down and runs her finger along the cut into the thick rubber of the front nearside tyre. She repeats the process for them all, taking her time. A small crowd has gathered. Someone has their phone out and is either videoing or taking pictures. I ask DC Black if he can move people on and while he makes an effort to do so, it’s half-hearted at best.

‘We do say that people park here at their own risk,’ the security man says, ‘but we’ve never had anything like this happen before. Normally, it’s a couple of scrapes or a ding, but not this.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can check the CCTV, but it doesn’t cover every angle.’

DS King stands up. ‘I’d be grateful if you could do that. Perhaps DC Black could go with you.’

My heart sinks a little. I don’t want DC Black to go with him. I want him here, with his attempts to stop shoppers gawping at me. I feel heat rise on my face.

‘Look, I’m sure it’s nothing and I don’t want to waste police time, so if I can just call my garage to arrange pickup of the car, I’ll be on my way and you can be on yours, too.’

‘Do you have the note?’ DS King asks, ignoring my protestations that it’s most likely nothing, reaching into the pocket of her suit jacket and taking out a plastic ziplock bag.

Momentarily, I wonder what else her pockets hold. Is there an unending supply of police equipment, like some weird version of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag?

I stare at her.