‘Christ, no. He’s having to tidy up a couple of other jobs at the moment, but he can’t leave this one alone. He’s nearly done his time. Bulldog was his little retirement present, but unless we lay hands on your bloke before March, he’s gonna be disappointed.’

‘My bloke?’

‘McFaul. That’s Bullivant speaking, not me.’

‘He thinks we …?’

‘Yeah. I told him there was no way, but he never listens.’

‘Tell him again.’ I’m far from amused. ‘And tell him he’s got McFaul wrong, too. That man never laid a finger on Christianne. Not in the way he thinks.’

‘You say.’

‘I do. Absolutely. That lovely woman had luck on her side. Just drifted away. Can you imagine a sweeter end? For someone with her prognosis? Brilliant, says me. Gone. Disappeared off the face of the planet. Perfect. Say hi to Shaz for me, promise?’

‘No problem.’

‘And that Apple MacBook of mine?’

‘Still in the queue for analysis, I’m afraid.’ He sighs. ‘Sorry.’

Malo turns up in Holland Park at the beginning of December, but turns down the offer of tea. An ankle problem has clipped his wings as far as training is concerned, but he’s in the hands of a physio he trusts and with luck he’ll be back in Richmond Park before Christmas.

‘We’re looking at a house in Twickenham, Mum. Clem loves it. Ten minutes, tops, and I’m in the park.’

I blink. Houses in Twickenham cost a fortune. As do physios.

‘What happened to that apartment off Ranelagh Gardens?’

‘Dreadful. You were right. Way overpriced, and in any case it’s gone.’

‘And Twickenham?’

‘Two-bedroom terrace. Six hundred thou. Clem’s taking her mum round tonight. H saw it last weekend.’

‘And?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Do I get a look?’

‘Of course you do, that’s why I came over.’

We take the lift to the ground floor to spare his ankle and he drives me to a quiet street on the Hounslow side of Twickenham. The current owners, who are young, are in the process of putting their infant daughter to bed, but the woman obviously has a soft spot for Malo and is happy to show me around. Malo’s right. Two reception rooms downstairs. Galley kitchen. A couple of decent-sized bedrooms. Plus private parking at the back. Perfect.

Once again, Malo insists on taking me to supper. Pizza Express will never hold a candle to Avventura, but I’m not complaining.

‘And Sylvester?’ I enquire. ‘Still smitten?’

‘Him or me?’

‘The pair of you. Last time we had a proper conversation, you were on a month’s trial. I take it you passed muster?’

‘Sort of.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he pays me a wage, keeps me going, points me in certain directions.’

‘Like?’