Andrea Gifford, when I meet her next day, turns out to be a delight. She must be a year or two older than me. The darkness beneath her eyes suggests late nights and a crippling work schedule, yet she has a patience and a quiet sense of humour that I take as a kind of blessing. That we might be like-minded under these circumstances is a lifeline. For one thing, she’s wearing a pair of my favourite Boden ankle boots. And for another, she’s had the foresight to arrive with a decent cup of coffee, a takeout from some Costa down the road.

‘Treating you OK?’ She nods towards the door. We’re back in the room with no windows.

‘No complaints,’ I say brightly. ‘Microwaved pasty like last night’s, I could live here forever.’

She has the grace to share my little joke. One day, God willing, we might end up splitting a bottle or two of decent Merlot in her favourite wine bar, but for the time being we have to attend to business. She’s reviewed her notes from last night’s conversation with Tony Morse, and has a suggestion to make, but first she needs to ask me a straight question.

‘How much did you know about Christianne’s death?’

‘Nothing. Swear to God.’

‘The dog thing?’

‘Pardon my French but it’s bollocks. I met the dog once. Yes, I picked it up, gave it a cuddle, but no, I wasn’t wearing the bloody mac. They make this stuff up.’

‘The chaise?’

‘They’ve got the timeline wrong. It was still at Bill’s until way after she disappeared.’

‘The Fentanyl?’

‘They’re right that I had a month’s supply, but I flushed them down the loo. This was years ago.’

‘Why?’

‘My son was zombied out at the time, totally off his head. Spice is evil, but I’m guessing you know that.’

She nods, says nothing, then lightly touches the flesh above her right eyebrow.

‘And the tumour?’

‘Better, I think.’

‘Gone?’

‘Not quite. But it knows the end is near.’

‘Unlike you?’

‘Unlike me.’

When she asks her last question, about masterminding McFaul’s flight to France, I once again tell her that it’s nonsense. It’s true that I accepted a flight from Nathan Kline, but the man would never take no for an answer. The phrase sparks a nod and a smile.

‘I know Nathan,’ she says. ‘You have my sympathies.’

The coffee, after this morning’s cornflakes, is delicious. Andrea talks me through the likely course of the day’s events, and when I press her for a game plan, something simple even I can understand, she understands at once.

‘They need to back off,’ she says. ‘And you need to make that happen.’