‘Yep. But it looks expensive,’ he says. ‘I think it’s for companies, really. Credit cards or whatever.’ He taps away some more and then looks up, his face brighter. ‘Or the Land Registry has a thing, look. You can buy a title register for three pounds. Not sure what that is though.’

There aren’t three pounds on my person but I need the information. ‘The title register will tell us who owns it. Amit, I can pay you back, do you think you could?’ I say, but before I can finish the request, he has already completed the form and typed a bank card number into it. Within seconds the title information comes back.

‘Summary of title, address,’ he says, scrolling down. ‘There it is, owner: Arathorn Industries Limited.’

I sigh but muster the energy to thank him.

‘No probs,’ he says but continues to tap away. ‘Yeah. No good. Can’t get any details of the directors or anything.’

The screen shows that the company is registered offshore. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry, Amit. I think I’ve wasted about an hour and a half at least of your study time.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I was going to do French. Can’t stand it. Who is she, by the way – the woman?’

‘I don’t know. But something happened to her and I need her name so I can ask the police if she’s missing.’ Even as I am saying it, I realise I’m not making much sense. ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’

He points the cursor at the screen again. ‘18:58.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

He nods, and I get up and leave.

Once outside I weigh up what I know. An expensive flat. No more than that. A spectacularly expensive flat. A place for a millionaire, even a millionaire tied up in enough illicit wealth that he can call on fixers to fix his mistakes. Maybe this wasn’t even his first murder. A person like that who can click his fingers and have people emerge from the shadows to clean away his messes could develop a taste for mess.