‘The duty’s very good,’ he says. ‘I can recommend her.’

‘Mr Morse, please. And give him my regards.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I am. That’s his office number. I’m afraid no one’s there before nine.’

He shrugs, checks his watch, makes a note. Next, I’m photographed and fingerprinted, a process that must be the briefest audition ever. Twice, deliberately, I keep my mouth open, incurring more wrath from the custody sergeant’s assistant, but in truth I don’t care. My faith in British justice, given the circumstances, is remarkably intact. Unless I’ve imagined the last three months, I have nothing to fear. Dragging me from my bed and arresting me on any grounds is a declaration of war.

The custody cell, by comparison with my brief stay in the TACT centre, is rudimentary – a bed plinth, a thin blue plastic mattress, a loo smelling of bleach, a smallish window high in one wall, and a glassy stare from the camera in the corner. The turnkey tells me the whole operation will shortly be moving to brand-new premises at force headquarters. Bigger cells. Hi-tech everything. Plus coffee to be proud of. I nod, barely bothering to feign interest. I plan to be here no more than a single night, if I’m unlucky, perhaps two. Then these people will never have to bother with me again.

The turnkey is about to leave when I ask him if there’s anything to read.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

He’s back within minutes, holding the second in the Shades of Grey series. With as much grace as I can muster, I tell him I’ve read it. It’s a lie, of course, but I’m not sure it matters.

I manage to snatch a little sleep. I dream of being airborne again, no aircraft, no wings, no company, just little me. I dive and swoop and twirl, giving the seagulls a run for their money, and wherever I look – up, down, left, right – the sky, or the ocean, or the cliff face are exactly the same shade of pinky-red. England bleeding, I think, as I finally jolt awake. Beth, bless her, is right. As, in his own furious way, is Mitch.

My watch has been taken away, doubtless a ruse to disorientate me, and so I have no idea of the time when the door opens and I’m led to a nearby office to conference with Tony Morse.

‘Nearly half past one,’ he says, after giving me a long hug. ‘Afternoon already. The longer we can string this out, the better. You’re doing well.’