And it was only then that I noticed the two boxes of Alex’s junk which I’d packed up in misery the other night were still by the door.

‘There,’ I mumbled, pointing at the still sealed and apparently untouched cardboard cartons, Alex’s name scrawled on both.

Our eyes were all drawn to the spot.

‘That’s funny.’ Fox knelt down by the boxes and ran a finger over the masking tape that held them shut. ‘No one’s had a go at these, sir. Though everything else has been turned right over. How very fortunate for you.’

‘What exactly are you insinuating?’ Alex’s voice dropped dangerously low.

‘Nothing at all, sir.’ Fox stood again, reaching for his mobile phone from the pocket of a mac that had seen better days. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ He turned away as his call connected.

My heart began to hammer again. ‘Alex, where the hell is Digby?’

‘He’s probably scavenging outside. You know Digby.’ I imagined that Alex’s face softened as he looked at me. ‘Come on, Mag. We’ll go and find him – and then I’ll give you a lift to work, if you like.’

I ran down the stairs. ‘I’m not going to bloody work. I just need to find the dog.’

Outside, the fog was still wafting down the street like a grand dame on her way to a ball. There was no sign of the dog anywhere, although my bags were still leaning against the wall.

‘Digby,’ I called, ‘Digby. Here, boy.’ My voice was sharp and cracked. ‘Oh God, Digby, where the hell are you?’

Mrs Forlani appeared through the fog like a ghastly apparition, in a pink dressing-gown and fluffy slippers, her dark hair wild. She never got dressed before three.

‘Bellissima, are you all right?’ She eyed the police car with its top light still flashing through the strings of fog as if it might leap forward and bite her. ‘I ’ave been so worried about you.’

‘That’s nice. I’m fine.’ I was gabbling. ‘Or, no, I’m not fine actually. Have you seen my dog?’ I couldn’t stop. ‘I can’t find him. Someone’s broken into the flat. They cut up my underwear. It’s all a terrible mess.’

‘Oh my God.’ Mrs Forlani clapped her hands to her face in horror. ‘I say to Matteo, I told you how I was so worried on the telephone the other night. La giovinastra – how do they call them now in the news here – that hoodie waiting around your door. It give me the creep.’

‘Creeps,’ I corrected absently, vaguely recalling her message. ‘Have you seen the dog, though?’

‘She was very strange.’

‘Who was?’

‘Her. La ragazza I talk about. This stranger.’

‘He,’ I corrected again, walking towards the corner to call Digby. ‘You said it was a “he”.’