‘No. It’s your friend McFaul. He failed to show at the nick yesterday morning. He’s in breach of his bail conditions and we think he’s done a runner.’

‘Up to London, you mean? You thought you’d find him here?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘And now?’

‘We have to check everything out. Any digital devices, I’m afraid we’ll need to seize them. PC?’ He’s looking round. ‘Laptop? Tablet? Mobile phone?’

‘Help yourself.’ I’m staring at him. ‘This is unreal, you know that? You haven’t got a shred of evidence, not one, yet here you are, four of you, armed to the teeth, barging in. You mind if I make a phone call? Is that allowed?’

‘You can do it from the station.’

‘What? You’re arresting me?’

‘Only if we have to. Best if you volunteer for interview.’ He’s meeting my gaze at last. Then he relents. ‘Who do you want to phone?’

‘A friend,’ I say. ‘And he happens to be a lawyer.’

Brett is spared having to make a decision by the arrival of another figure. He’s tallish, pale, balding, and wears a nicely cut suit. He doesn’t offer a name, or a rank, but his body language suggests he probably outranks everyone else in the room.

Bullivant has finished with his phone call. The newcomer wants to know about my bank statements, cards, and – most important of all – passports.

‘We understand you’re half French, Ms Andressen.’ He’s turned to me. Impeccably neutral accent. Impossible to locate.

‘Yes. I was born there. Brittany. Perros-Guirec.’

‘You have a French passport?’

‘Yes. And a British passport, too.’

‘I’m afraid we’ll need sight of them both. Plus any old passports you’ve kept.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean you’re seizing them?’

‘Yes. You’ll get them back, of course. Once we’re finished.’

‘Do I have any choice here? Can I say no?’ I’m looking from face to face, already guessing the answer.

They drive me to a police station half an hour away. The place feels like a fortress, but I’m allowed to make a phone call from the desk where they book you in. Tony Morse is an old ally of H from his Pompey days, a successful and rather stylish solicitor with a huge profile in Portsmouth. We first met a couple of years ago and bonded at first sight. Keeping H one step ahead of the men in blue made Tony a legend in Pompey, as well as rich, and I’ve always marvelled at what I can only call his sang froid. Tony Morse panics at nothing, least of all a call from his favourite screen actress.

I tell him where I’m being held. So far, Tony has only been half-listening but the name of the police station appears to change everything.

‘You’re kidding me,’ he says. ‘Why?’

‘Good question. Do you mind coming up?’