‘Yes. My grandfather was in asbestos,’ I continued. ‘He manufactured the stuff into fire-retardant coatings and bricks during the early years of the century in a factory just north of Cardiff. My grandmother was from Quebec. Her father owned a mine there. That was how they met. Then in 1929 he lost his youngest child to bronchitis. Two years later my grandmother succumbed to chronic fibrosis and died. My grandfather committed suicide within the year.’

I paused.

‘There is no asbestos in the cottage, Miss Hahn – Mr Tyler. An asbestos check is the first thing I undertake when I arrive in a property. I always travel with a small but very powerful magnifying glass, a viscous gel, a scalpel and a petri dish.’

‘Don’t you have a car waiting, Mr Huff?’ Miss Hahn wondered (the golden people rippling seismically around her).

‘Not a problem,’ I said.

Mr Tyler did not look happy. His interest in Miss Hahn was plainly more than just professional. The very idea of this ‘interest’ quite literally made my blood boil.

‘The word asbestos hails from the ancient Greek,’ I said, ‘and it literally translates as “unquenchable” or “inextinguishable”. A heat word,’ I hissed, ‘a passion word.’ I shot him a significant look.

Mr Tyler seemed confused.

‘I once read that Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor, had a tablecloth fashioned from asbestos,’ Miss Hahn piped up. ‘He liked to amaze people by throwing it into the fire. It would go in filthy and come out spotless.’

‘Hadn’t you better be heading off to your appointment, Mr Tyler?’ I demanded.

‘Yes … uh … I suppose if …’ Miss Hahn glanced between the two of us, uneasily, then shoved her hair behind her ear, gnawing, anxiously, on her lower lip.

I took a couple of halting steps towards the outer wall of the air-raid shelter (casually blocking Mr Tyler with the overwhelming force of my sheer physical presence). I leaned my weight against it (the wall. On a straight arm, a spread hand), thereby taking some of the worst of the pressure off my legs (the golden people were everywhere – seething, writhing, everywhere). I then commenced a blatantly private/intimate conversation with Miss Hahn to indicate that his continuing presence was now very much ‘surplus to requirements’.

‘Did you receive the photos I sent you, Miss Hahn?’ I murmured.

‘I did, yes.’ She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

I winced. Not too much movement, Miss Hahn! I thought.

‘You’re very welcome to them,’ I insisted. ‘I can easily print off another, full set from the negatives – if ever I have the need of one.’

Miss Hahn’s expression was somewhat quizzical. ‘A full set, Mr Huff?’ she asked.

I frowned.

‘It’s just that …’ she started off, then she seemed to change her mind and quickly bent over to dust away a spider’s web from her trouser-leg instead.

Not too much sudden movement, Miss Hahn! I almost gasped.

‘So there may’ve been a couple missing …’ I openly acknowledged (no point in beating about the bush!).