‘I want you to tell them exactly what happened that weekend but only as far as you’re concerned. Tell them what you told me. They’ll use that as a springboard, but resist the temptation to give them anything else.’

‘Pleasure.’ I offer a wan smile. ‘I’m not in the mood for conversation.’

My first interview takes place nearly an hour later. I haven’t seen Bullivant for a while, but he hasn’t aged a second. The same dead eyes. The same parchment skin drawn tight over the bones of his face. The same meticulous attention when he presses the start button on the recording machine, and announces the time, date and persons present around the bareness of the table.

Brett Atkinson sits beside him, the assigned taker of notes, intervening from time to time to seek clarification on a name or a contact detail. After fifteen brief minutes, I’ve walked them both through that first and last weekend I ever spent with Christianne, and when they begin to press me on other issues – my rapport with Bill Penny, my dealings with Nathan Kline, what I make of Beth and Presley, how close I might have been to Andy McFaul – I do my solicitor’s bidding and offer no comment.

As a working thesp, I’m trained to recognize the tiny facial clues that work so well in close-up on the big screen, and despite his attempts to mask it, I can sense Bullivant’s growing frustration. He’s developed a giveaway flicker just beneath his left eye, partly hidden by the thick black rim of his glasses. This, I know, is a key tell and I’m delighted when he pushes his pad to one side and leans forward over the table.

‘I assume you’ll remember that note Christianne left you?’

‘No comment.’

‘It was fond, wasn’t it? Even intimate?’

‘No comment.’

‘So, are we really to believe she didn’t confide in you? About how sick she was? About what she and her partner might have in mind to do about it?’

‘No comment.’

‘By your own admission, she showed you that patch of ground on the clifftop, the one that meant so much to her. No whisper of what she might have in mind? Not even a hint?’

‘No comment.’

This game, which is more tiring than you might think, occupies the rest of the hour. Finally, Bullivant gets to his feet, mutters something to Brett, and then leaves the office without a backward glance. The three of us sit in silence while Brett studies his notes. When Tony enquires whether Operation Bulldog might be seeking a twelve-hour extension beyond the current twenty-four, Brett thinks it’s more than possible.

‘Everyone arrested has asked for their own lawyers,’ he murmurs, ‘and most of them have to come down from London. If you’re looking to stall the interview process, good luck, but that has consequences, as you might imagine.’