I watch her for a moment, her long fingers busy on the keypad tapping out a reply to some text, and I know that Andrea was right. Step back into the maze that is Operation Bulldog, try to sieve fact from fantasy, and my grip on what matters immediately begins to weaken. Was Beth there when they buried Christianne? Did she help carry the coffin? Does she have a tame dealer with access to limitless quantities of Fentanyl? And would she ever tell me if any of those things happened to be true? Not only do I doubt it, but I’m fast coming to the conclusion that I don’t really care. All that matters is keeping Bullivant at arm’s length.

‘I haven’t been sleeping too well.’ I’m looking at Mitch. ‘I might go upstairs for a nap.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

I must have been asleep for a while because it’s dark outside when I hear a tap on the bedroom door. It’s Beth. The woman from the Telegraph is downstairs and wants a word with me. She’s really nice, too, and sees the issue exactly our way.

‘Tell her I’m asleep,’ I mutter. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

‘She’s filing tonight. She needs quotes. Her circulation’s massive. She’s truly out there. Just half an hour? Is that asking too much?’

Beth never takes no for an answer. I struggle out of bed. A single glance in the mirror confirms I’m not fit for a meeting like this.

‘Don’t worry.’ Beth is watching me like a hawk. ‘Mitch says she’ll use a stock photo. In fact, she’s already been in touch with your agent.’

‘She’s talked to Rosa?’

‘I imagine so.’

‘Oh, Christ.’

I suspect that Rosa, who thrives on a good crisis, will be having the time of her life. With luck, she’ll use this media shit storm to break the news about the French series. Dimanche, I think grimly. Starring a suspected murderer.

Downstairs, Evelyn has assigned the woman from the Telegraph a seat at the kitchen table. She’s petite, pretty under a layer of make-up, and far younger than I’d imagined.

‘Carole-Anne.’ She gets up and extends a limp hand. ‘I loved Arpeggio.’

‘That’s kind. This is all a bit sudden. I’m not quite sure how I can help you.’

‘No problem. It won’t take long. You mind if I record this?’ She swipes her mobile without waiting for an answer, and finds the right icon, and watching her flip back through her notepad, I feel like I’m in the hands of a hard-pressed dentist. Ten minutes max. And it won’t hurt.

‘You don’t really know this place. Am I right?’

‘You are, yes.’

‘Outsider? Would that be fair?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what do you make of it?’

This is a clever question and there’s absolutely no legal reason why I shouldn’t answer it.